Dance in the dark
by irnan
Summary: Mary supposed it had been too much to ask for that Mother had come for her out of the goodness of her heart. There was always a catch. - Pathways 'verse; sequel to "Turn any corner"
1. dance in the dark

_Still penniless, here._

**Dance in the dark **

Mary hadn't realised how terrible she looked until they reached the hospital. The harsh artificial lights showed every bruise, every tear of skin, smear of blood, smudge of dirt. She was pretty sure she stank, too: she couldn't remember the last time her captors had permitted her to wash properly.

Mother never stirred from her side, not hovering, she never hovered, probably couldn't even spell the word, just always there. She told the doctors they were sisters, cold fingers lacing through Mary's, and for a few moments, Mary Colt felt twelve years old again.

They let her wash first, soap off the grime and dried blood of months in that basement, that small suffocating concrete cell, and then checked her over. Her hands were a terrible mess from beating on those unyielding walls, torn and scraped and swollen. Otherwise, she had few serious physical injuries, but she was thin, so thin she was barely there, skin stretched tightly over her bones, ribs plainly visible, shoulders and hips jutting out at terrible angles.

Mary took one look at her reflection in the cold mirror hanging in the impersonal, hard-edged bathroom and turned away, sharply reminded of the healthier concentration camp survivors she'd seen in Germany in 1945.

Finally, they put an infusion in her arm, for nourishment or hydration or whatever, she was too tired to pay attention, wrapped her hands in miles of bandages, and gave her warm clean scrubs to sleep in (she'd flatly refused to wear a hospital gown; just in case). Then she curled up under a pile of blankets and looked at Mother.

"Can you open the windows? Please?"

Mother paused a moment, but then nodded. The fresh air streaming into the room eased Mary's nervousness instantly, and she wondered vaguely how many centuries it would take her to get rid of the claustrophobia.

"What did you do to me?"

Her voice was very quiet, sleepy and sad. Somehow, she didn't have the strength to shout and scream and rail at her the way she had wanted to when she'd first realised what she'd become.

"I saved your life."

Mother's voice was equally quiet. Gentle, soothing. New one for her. It had always been Father who'd chased away Mary's nightmares as a child.

When he'd been there, which hadn't been often.

"You cursed me."

"It was the only way."

"To do what? You haven't done me any favours, you know. You've trapped me here. You of all people should know what that's like, surely."

"Yes."

"What, no apology?"

"I don't apologise."

"How about explaining?"

"I had to be sure you'd still be alive when Azazel made his move. I couldn't chance Sam's descendents dying out before that."

Mary sighed. She didn't have the strength right now to point out the flaws in Mother's logic, the cold cruelty of what she'd done to her. Tired, she was so tired, cold and hurting, but finally safe. After two centuries of running, finally safe. It had never really come home to her before just how long she'd lived – nearly two hundred years. They felt like eternity. Mother's hand ran through her hair, slow and comforting, and she drifted off, back into darkness, warm and inviting.

But she woke trembling and breathless some time later out of a dream in which she was back in that cell, struggling against a shadow with yellow eyes, John's blood drenching her wedding dress while fire licked at the skirts. Mother held her, rocked her back to sleep, cold cold hands on her back, her head, holding her close. Mary clung to her as she hadn't clung to anyone for more years than she cared to count, and slept again eventually.

The next morning, Mother watched her wolf down breakfast looking caught between revulsion and envy.

"I thought it was bad for you to eat so much after a period of starvation," she said.

Mary shrugged at her, waved her fork in the air until she swallowed her mouthful of bacon.

"I don't play by other people's rules."

"I see incarceration hasn't done your mouth any harm."

"Were you expecting it to?"

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast."

"Presents you with a bit of a quandary, then."

Mother sighed. "Mary. Can you please take this seriously?"

"This what? My bacon?"

"Enough," Mother snapped. "Save it for later. We need to go to New York."

Mary rolled her eyes. "I might have known you didn't rescue me out of the goodness of your heart."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mother was still snapping. It had always been her default setting. "You're my daughter. I –"

"Love you? Please. Save it. For all you care, I could have rotted in that basement for another fifty years, but you needed something first, didn't you?"

Mary felt an odd elation, a bubble of unnatural courage filling her stomach. She'd never spoken to Mother like this before… but God knew she'd wanted to. Mother looked – not stricken, exactly, just… shocked. As if she'd never before wondered what Mary thought of her. As if it hadn't even mattered to her. Somehow, that made Mary bolder still.

"The answer's no, Mother, I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Ungrateful brat," her Mother hissed, an old familiar accusation. "After everything I've done for you? I've given you eternity."

"If you had asked me first, I would have preferred to die of pneumonia," Mary snarled, quiet but just as fierce.

Mother drew back a little, straightened up. Mary thought she knew the look in her eyes: the one she wore before her prey walked straight into a trap and got strung up by the ankle. Triumph and anticipation.

"So. Where else are you going to go?"

That needed no thought. "To John. To John and our sons, to tell them the truth. They may hate me, I don't care, but I owe them that. And a way to destroy Azazel, to keep Sammy safe."

Mother's eyes widened, and she smiled. Mary felt a cold stone drop into her stomach and grow larger and heavier by the second.

"Azazel _is_ destroyed, Mary. Your Dean killed him, used your father's pistol. Sam is as safe as he can be in the middle of a war between humans and Hell."

She should have been relived, but the weight in her stomach just got worse. "All the more reason for me to go to them. They deserve an explanation. And I want to see my husband."

"He's dead."

Like a slap in the face, those words, hard and cold and unmerciful. She had to put her cutlery down with a sudden clatter; her hands were shaking.

"How? When?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. She wasn't even sure she'd spoken aloud until Mother answered.

"Shortly after you got caught. He sold his soul to Azazel in exchange for Dean's life. To the best of my knowledge, he's in Hell right now. Enjoying the hospitality. Soon your beloved mortal husband will be no different to me."

Mother was enjoying this. Her voice was filled with cold cruel triumph. "And as for your baby boys, what explanation could you possibly give them? Their father would still be alive if it weren't for your mistakes. They would have lives of their own, careers, families. What will you tell them, Mary? That their sainted mother is a thief, a liar, a witch, a killer and a fraud? That they've suffered for years at Azazel's hands because you were fool enough to think that you'd fallen in love with the latest in a long line of meaningless lays? He forgot about you within months, you fool. Did you really think you meant anything to him other than as an incubator for his brats? _You?_"

Mary couldn't even breathe. It wasn't true, it just wasn't, she knew it in every bone in her body, but Mother had always been able to twist the truth until Mary no longer knew what was up and what was down, until her certainties became agonizing doubts.

Then Mother's voice changed, became gentle, soothing, alluring.

"Come to New York with me, Mary. Help me find your father's pistol. Then, if that's what you still want, I'll set you free."

Mary stared at her. "Set me free? Reverse the curse?"

"If that's what you want."

Too much, it was all too much, the memory of that basement, of months of imprisonment and often torture still fresh and raw inside her, John dead, gone, _in Hell for eternity_, and she couldn't imagine a world he didn't exist in, her brave beautiful soldier, Mother's cutting words, because God knew they were the truth: how could she ever expect Dean and Sammy to even want to hear her out, let alone forgive her, being what she was?

And now, in the midst of all this, Mother was finally offering her what she'd searched for for decades: a way to end this half-life, this continual cycle of existence that never let her rest that had been her curse for nearly two hundred years.

"Go away," she whispered. Any louder and she'd start to cry.

Mother's eyebrows rose.

"Just for now. Leave me alone a while."

Mother looked at her searchingly for a minute or two, and then nodded, got up. Her hand stroked comfortingly over Mary's hair; she desperately needed a trim.

"I don't mean to hurt you, princess, but you need to know," she whispered, using Father's old nickname for her. "It will be all right, though. I promise. Everything will be all right now. You're mine, Mary, and I'll keep you safe. I promise. Sleep now. We'll leave tomorrow, when you're stronger."

Mary tensed up, face set, hugging her knees against her chest, breakfast forgotten. When Mother had left, she curled up in the bed, sobs racking her emaciated body, and cried herself hoarse, until her eyes were almost painfully swollen and there simply wasn't breath left in her body for another sob.

Then she sat up, and scrubbed her tears away. Trusting Mother's word on this was the worst thing she could do. Long and painful experience had taught her that Mother never made anyone as wise as herself. But Mary needed information, and she needed it from a source friendly to _her_.

There was only one being in the world besides herself and Mother who knew what she was. Only one being she trusted enough to ask for help. Sure, they'd had their arguments… but she'd known him since she was ten years old, an uneducated foul-mouthed guttersnipe in the streets of Hartford, dressed as a boy to escape the whorehouses, nearly two centuries ago, and he had never let her down yet.

Mary slipped out of bed and padded on bare feet into the bathroom. She washed her face and tied her hair back; then rooted through the drawers in the room until she found the one with the medical supplies. She palmed a scalpel and pulled open the door to the hospital room.

Two be-suited FBI agents were talking to the doctor who'd treated her at the end of the corridor, and she bit back a curse. Of course: Mary Collins' parents had the money and influence to mobilize the entire US Army to look for her, damn them. She ran for the elevator before they turned and spotted her.

It might have comforted her a little to know she was mimicking her husband's movements of over a year ago when she jimmied the door to the boiler room open and found a small darkened corner to work the summoning in.

A cut across her palm, sigil drawn in the air with one blood-stained fingertip. It hung before her, red and glowing, and she whispered into it: his name, three times. She got an answer instantly.

"Well, well. Mary Colt. Been a long time."

Mary turned, grinning. "Anansi. Nice to see you too."

Then she dropped the scalpel and hugged him, both of them laughing.

"I should hope so too," he said. "Your timing is impeccable, by the way, my girl. I was just off to Beijing, for the Olympics. What say you, come along, help me paint the town red?"

Mary tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and would have answered, but the Trickster caught her bandaged wrist. "What happened?"

Voice low and concerned and comforting, same as the time she'd seen him working his magic on the man in the alley, the one who'd tried to rape her friend Sarah, and she'd stood in front of him, hands on hips, just outside the growing pool of the bastards blood, completely unafraid, and boasted, _I know what you are._

"Demons," she shrugged now. "They hate me." She made her voice deliberately petulant and childish. Anansi shook his head at her. "You provoke it."

"Sometimes, yeah." She grinnned; so did he.

"So. Beijing? It'll be San Fran all over again. We'll really go to town, all the fun there is to be had in a nation of people just begging for their just deserts. But I warn you, no boyfriends."

"Anansi. I'm married."

"That, my girl, is what the divorce courts are for."

"_Don't,_" she said harshly, and he frowned at her.

"I knew it. You _are_ in trouble."

"I need some information. Mother's up to something, and she expects me to participate."

Anansi shuddered. "Mary-girl, you are probably the only person in this or any other world not terrified of your mother. She bullied me into a favour not two months ago. It's that knife of hers."

"Knife?"

"Kills anything. Like your father's legendary gun."

"Does it now," Mary mused. The beginnings of a plan was forming in the back of her mind. But first…

"About my info?"

"Anything for you, dear girl."

"Does the name Winchester mean anything to you?"

He threw his head back and laughed out loud. "Mean anything to me? Mary-girl. It means something to everyone who's anyone these days. The older brother, he killed Azazel, for God's sake. And the younger, well. Lilith herself is terrified of him. Thinks he's out to usurp her throne."

Mary's breath caught in her throat. "Is he?"

"Lord, no. At the moment, the only thing Sam Winchester is interested in is getting his big brother out of that deal of his. Guilt, if you ask me. All the underworld knows Dean traded his soul for Sam's life."

"He traded his soul…" Mary rubbed at her arms, goosebumps rising, grief and horror choking her voice. Her darling beautiful boys…

"He did indeed. Lilith owns his contract. She thinks it will give her control over the younger boy, and I said to her, Lilith, I said, you're a fool. The only reason Sam _isn't _your competition yet is because of Dean. The minute you take the older boy, you're in trouble. She didn't believe me. And, added to that, word from Below says she'll never manage to keep him, even if everything does go according to plan. Their father got out, you know, when the Devil's Gate opened in Wyoming. Crawled out of Hell. Lilith probably doesn't believe that story either, but really, if it's not true, then where, I ask you, is John Winchester, hmm?"

"John got out," Mary said, soft and breathless, and suddenly she was laughing and crying at once, clinging to Anansi and trembling in rather embarrassing ways. Breaking down when alone, was one thing, but this… "John's free. He's safe."

Anansi wrapped both arms around her, held her upright. He understood instantly. "Mary-girl, are you telling me John Winchester was that soldier you married?"

She nodded against his shirt, still sniffling, and he sighed. "Oh, dear. Well, at least I know where Dean gets his looks from. He's _gorgeous_, you know."

"Skank," she accused fondly. "You leave him alone."

"Too late," Anansi said. "They've already tried to kill me once. And that favour your mother bullied me into? She's taking an interest in them, Mary-girl. Or rather, in Sam. As far as she's concerned, Dean is expendable. That curse she put on _you_ could save him from the Pit, you know, but she won't use it. She wants Sam for something."

Mary stared at him, silent and grim and furious, mouth tight, eyes hard as emeralds.

"She's about to get the shock of her life, then. They're mine, mine and John's, and no jumped-up demonic whore is having either of them."

Anansi grinned at her fondly. "That's my girl. How can I help?"


	2. walk the night alone

**Walk the night alone**

Getting away from Mother was the easy part, Mary thought. All it took was some FBI agents turning up to question her, which of course meant that she'd have to part with that knife, and a few minutes alone in the hospital room with the door locked to prevent interruptions.

Anansi provided the FBI agents, and found Mary some clothes. She reflected rather gloomily on the number of girls she had known back in Manhattan who'd kill to wear jeans in the size she was currently tugging over her hips.

Then Mother was back, looking annoyed.

"I think I've got rid of them," she said. "Here. Drink this."

_This_ was a flask full of some foul-smelling green potion. Mary took it cautiously, sniffed.

"What is it?"

"To help you heal – your hands, in particular. Get your strength back."

"How addictive is it?" because really, did Mother honestly think she was that stupid?

"Very."

Mary sighed, and downed it all the same. It tasted like liquefied spinach, and her throat muscles closed up in protest, but as soon as she'd finished the flask, warmth began to spread through her, radiating outwards, stroking across her aches and pains and smoothing them over, making them less acute, dull and blunted. With the warmth came a rush of energy, of strength; she felt more clear-headed than she ever had since before being captured.

If she drank this when completely healthy, she'd be high so fast she'd hit the ceiling. Hmm. Worth remembering.

"Your so-called parents could really hold us up," Mother was saying. "I think you'd better call, spin them some kind of story."

"Maybe you're right," Mary agreed. "Where are we going?"

"New York. There's a girl there, Bela Talbot, who stole your Father's pistol. I don't know what she wants it for, but we need it fast. Lilith is making a play for the throne, and I can't let her have it."

"Ah."

Mother was pacing restlessly around the room, past the window, back towards Mary. Finally she stopped in the middle of the room, at the end of the bed, arms crossed over her chest, glaring into nothingness. She glared exceptionally well.

_Come on, Mother. This way. Over here. Thaaaat's it…_

Mary grinned a savage triumphant grin, and stood up off the chair.

"Newsflash for you, Mother. I'm not going to New York."

Mother turned to face her slowly, and Mary bit back a flash of fear. That implacable fury usually meant she was about to get hurt. Badly.

"What did you say?"

"I'm not going to New York. You lied to me. Not that I was surprised, really, but still. You lied. I'm not in this for your war, or your ambitions. I'm going to Dean and Sam. Now, today. They need me."

Mother didn't say anything for a moment, looking as if she were trying to stop herself hitting Mary. When she did speak, her voice quivered with fury, but she stayed admirably calm and quiet.

"Mary. This is ridiculous. They don't need you, and all you'll accomplish is that you will get hurt. By them."

"Only fair, don't you think?" The last thing she wanted to do was let Mother know how much she knew about what was happening out there. That would be downright dangerous.

"Mary, please listen to me. You're being silly, melodramatic. You have to come with me, dammit. Those boys, their father, really, they're nothing. They shouldn't mean anything to you. You're stronger than that, to let yourself get distracted by things like that."

"Things like what, Mother? Love? Family?"

"It's a weakness that will get you killed," Mother hissed, stepping forward. "The truth, now. Has it been worth it? Incarceration, torture, pain and death, was it worth it, Mary? In exchange for what? Cooking, cleaning, birthing those brats, a few decent lays? Was it really worth it?"

"You know something? Something totally masochistic and ridiculous? Even if all I _had_ gotten out of it was labour pains and kitchen duty and the occasional decent lay? It still would been worth it. And the mere fact that you had to ask the question goes a long way to prove that you have no idea what you're talking about."

Perhaps it was that drink, but Mary felt unshakably calm, totally in control. Nothing Mother said or did could stop her, could make her doubt how much John had loved her, not anymore. She wasn't sure where this self-confidence was suddenly coming from, because Mother had always been the one being that could unsettle everything she thought she knew about herself… but that had been two centuries ago. Mary hadn't been that uncertain girl in a long long time.

Mother's face was set with fury now, and she made no move to hide it. "You reckless foolish little idiot," she exclaimed, and took three more steps towards Mary.

On the last one, she met some kind of resistance that flung her back against the bottom of the bed, and she dropped, stunned, to the ground.

Mary smirked. "Look up, Mommy," she suggested, pointing at the Devil's Trap on the ceiling. "I'm leaving, Mother. I'm going to my sons, and I'm going to get Dean out of his deal. After that, we can talk, if you like."

She stepped around the edges of the Trap and lifted the knife out of the bedside cabinet, pulled on the leather jacket Anansi had found for her. Mother was still lying there, eyes flat black obsidian now, holes cut out of the very fabric of evil, watching her silently.

"See you soon," Mary said, and left without a backward glance.

* * *

Lilith, it turned out, was holding court in an abandoned town in Oregon. Anansi found it for her; a place called Rivergrove. Mary parked her stolen car in front of an abandoned military barricade, wondering what on earth had happened here. A notice from the CDC was lying in the middle of the road, talking about quarantine and closing off the whole area; it was a year old already.

Mary climbed over the fence and started to walk, the knife clearly visible in her hand, every sense on alert. The road was deserted, leading through the woods a ways before opening into the streets of the little town. Somewhere on the edges of the town, something was burning, a pall of smoke hanging low and heavy over the buildings. Buildings had been torn down, windows and walls destroyed for the fun of it. The streetlights were smashed and broken for the most part; one or two still flickered feebly. The stench of burning hung in the air.

The demon appeared out of nowhere, in the body of a teenaged boy, eyes flat and black. It was standing in front of her, arms at its sides, completely relaxed. Mary raised the knife so it could see it clearly.

"Let me pass," she said. "I've come to bargain with your mistress. Let me pass."

It stepped aside, gestured to show her the way, eyes always on the knife. She moved forwards, slow and careful, jaw set, body tense and ready.

The town hall. Of course. Where else would Lilith set up her court?

It swarmed with demons. They crowded near, just out of the reach of the knife, low hisses and mutterings and sibilant whispers filling the narrow corridors.

_Mary Colt … Ruby's daughter … Sam Colt's bastard brat … witch witch witch … friend of Anansi… Winchester's whore, no? ... Mother of the boy king … immortal, unkillable, cursed for eternity … the gun, the gun, does she not wield the gun? ... killer, murderer … hunter … queen … queen … queen …_

"Let her pass."

A child's voice, high and clear; a child seated on a throne-like chair in the center of the room, eyes milky-white, face calm but hands clenched, studying, watching, commanding.

"Mary Colt."

"Lilith. You have something that belongs to me. I'd like it back."

Blunt and straight to the point. Keep calm, no attitude, no messing about. It wasn't _her _life that mattered here.

It hadn't been her life that mattered since she'd woken up one sun-drenched morning and found herself in John Winchester's arms.

Lilith smiled a slow terrible smile, all the more frightening for it coming out of that sweet child's face.

"Your throne?"

She could take it, Mary knew. She was one of the most powerful witches alive, the daughter of an equally powerful demon, the child of Samuel Colt himself… the power Mother had bequeathed to her was in many ways akin to the one Azazel had forced upon Sam. She could take it, if she chose. If she wanted.

But Mary had never wanted it. Father had made sure of that, taught her differently, drawn her away from the darkness and death that were Mother's legacy, shown her how to embrace her humanity, not use it as a cover.

And there was one other, small but all-important difference between Mary and Sam that his mother intended to exploit to the full.

So she just chuckled. "No, dear. You really are a little paranoid, aren't you? Not everyone in _this_ world is lusting after your position, you know. Keep your throne. I dare say it's uncomfortable. No, I've come for my son."

Lilith stared, and then threw her head back and laughed, long and loud, a savage mockery of a child's mirth.

"Your son. Yes, of course. Dear darling broken Dean. I'm afraid the answer is no, my dear. He is _mine_. And don't try using that knife on me. His contract would pass on, and you'd be dead."

"Why do you want him so badly?"

"He is the killer of Azazel, no? To possess his soul… such respect that would accord me. And then, of course, there is his baby brother. Your second brat. Sammael is the intended heir, you know, and he loves his brother more than anything. More than anyone. If I have Dean, I control Sam. In other words, my dear: request denied."

Lilith rose to her feet, gestured to her minions to come closer. They pressed forward eagerly, all mindless imps with less power than a flashlight bulb, but still dangerous. Sheer numbers would tear Mary apart.

"And now, let's see if the stories they tell about you are true. Knife or no, you won't be leaving this room alive, I'm afraid. I'll take your last words to your Mother, if you want."

Mary didn't flinch, knew better than to mention Mother here, in this place full of beings that hated her. Nor did she look round; gaze locked with Lilith's.

"Have you forgotten, then, that Dean is my firstborn? Your errand-girl should never have accepted his bargain, Lilith. As his _mother_, I have first right to his soul. That right, the right of a parent to their firstborn son, is almost as old as you are. I can snatch him out of your greedy paws before he even breathes his last, you know."

The room had gone very still. Lilith was clutching the arms of her chair, eyes wide.

"But. I'd really prefer he lived to see his thirtieth birthday, to be honest with you. So I've come to trade. Name your price."

Lilith let out a long low exhale. "Aaaaah…"

"Name your price," Mary repeated, heart in her throat. She was banking on Lilith asking for one specific thing, and if that didn't work out, she was pretty much dead.

Worse, Dean would be lost. And with him, Mary suspected, Sammy. She wouldn't let that happen. John had given his everything to keep their sons alive and safe; she wouldn't fail him at the last hurdle. She _would not_.

"I've changed my mind," Lilith said gleefully. "I'm going to let you live. How would you like to be my next host?"

Mary smiled thinly. "Honey," she said, the endearment dripping with false sweetness, "You couldn't keep up with me."

Lilith bared her teeth. "Perhaps. My price, you say?" She pretended to consider, milk-white eyes never blinking. "Well. I told you already why I want Dean's soul. You can work it out from there, yes?"

Mary wanted to cheer. She kept her face carefully blank and expressionless when she answered, though. "You wanted a way to control the competition."

"Exactly."

"You really expect me to trade one son for another?"

Lilith moved forward, looked up at her, eyes huge in that lovely young face. "Oh, come now. Death is such a little thing, compared to eternity in the Pit. Such a very little thing. You of all people should know that, no?"

Mary bit her lip. "It's not enough. Not by a long shot. I came here to _save_ my sons."

Lilith _tsk_ed. "I'm the one who owns your baby's soul, Mary."

"How badly do you need to prove to your followers that your claim to that fancy chair is completely undisputed?" Mary asked, and for the first time, a sharp edge crept into her voice, the old attitude that had carried her through situations similar to this for nearly two centuries. If Lilith's position was as yet still as tenuous as Anansi had said, she would agree. No matter the terms.

It paid off. Lilith's eye's narrowed; she didn't answer. Mary had enough practice at reading demons to know that meant she was nervous.

"Swear to me you will never personally raise a hand against a member of my bloodline again."

Lilith nodded slowly. "Personally? That is… not unreasonable. There are hundreds of us who would kill for the honour of… well, killing a Winchester."

Was that amusement dancing in her eyes? Screw her. She was about to lose anyway, foolish over-eager bitch.

Mary pursed her lips. "This is our bargain, then: I will bring you Sammael. In return, you will release Dean from his contract and swear never to raise a hand against a member of my bloodline again. Do you agree?"

Lilith nodded solemnly. "I do so. Bring me Sammael. In return I will release Dean from his contract and swear never to raise a hand against a member of your bloodline again."

Old old magic, this repeating of a contract, the exact phrasing twice over, two vows that sealed the bargain, lending it more credence, tying it more securely. A promise that could never be broken. The Romans had known it, this art of binding each other with words, but like so much, it was lost to people now.

Mary spat on her palm, held it out. Lilith did the same; then they shook.

"We have a bargain," she told the room, voice high and clear and cold. "Let Mary Colt leave unharmed."


	3. the sky is filled with good and bad

_AN: Can't belive this one turned out so damn long! Still, if you're enjoying it... All titles here from Zeppelin's "Battle of Evermore", by the way._

**

* * *

**

The sky is filled with good and bad that mortals never know

"Sammy," Dean said, low and weary and pleading, "Sammy, come on. Let's get back to the motel room. It's late."

"You go," Sam said absently. "There's a safe back here I wanna try to get open."

Dean bit his lip worriedly. Almost a week they'd been in Black Rock now, Sam going through Dad's cache with the systematic unrelenting determination of a robot, searching for anything that would help him break Dean's deal.

So far, no luck, and Dean was getting more than a little concerned. Not to mention fed up: couldn't they just hang for a while? His time would be up before much longer, and dammit, he didn't want to spend it down here, buried in Dad's secrets. He wanted to spend it… well, he wasn't sure how he wanted to spend it, but he knew he wanted Sam to be there while he decided.

If Sam had looked up at him now, he might have seen that desire written on his brother's face, because Dean would never bring himself to say it aloud. But he didn't, absorbed in the lock on the small safe that had stood under the bench the landmines were laid out on.

Landmines. The word 'overkill' just hadn't been in Dad's vocabulary, had it?

Dean tossed himself into a chair and started to fiddle with what seemed to be a pile of his old report cards.

Had he really been that good at calculus? Huh.

"So what's in there?" he asked when the sound of the lock opening broke the silence.

"Uhm, files, few newspaper cuttings, a birth… certificate…"

"Yours or mine?"

"Mom's."

Dean sat up, scattering report cards and ancient essays he'd thought he'd thrown away to the floor. "What?"

"Dude… the whole file's on Mom."

Sam's eyes were very wide in the dim light, face pale. Dean swung to his feet, joined him. "Let's look at this stuff in the motel room," he suggested, suddenly feeling cramped, uncomfortable. They shouldn't be reading about Mom in a dusty storage container under the earth like this.

Sam shook his head, held up a few papers. "Dean…" he whispered. "Dean, these are… look."

Letters, police reports, a service record for the military for God's sake, birth certificates, death certificates, paper clippings that reached back to the 1880's. Dean and Sam rifled through them with growing horror and amazement. At first glance, the documents were about four different women, the oldest having been born in 1861, the youngest being their Mom.

But each of the women was named Mary. With each woman, it seemed that once she turned twenty-two, her life changed completely. Police reports of her going missing, the _service record_ of a spoiled, pampered little rich girl in Hawaii, a lunatic asylum in 1883. As if some other being had taken over these women's lives as soon as they each reached twenty-two.

And there were the photographs. Always the same woman; always their mother, long blond hair, green eyes, slightly mysterious smile. In long dresses with hoops and corsets or the sharp severe wartime blouses of the forties, in nurse's uniform or a dress that looked as if it had been pinched out of Stevie Nick's wardrobe… always the same woman. There were even a few of her as a child, jeans or lacy dresses with little boots and sashes, but still, undoubtably the same girl.

Dean's hands were shaking by the time he'd reached the bottom of the pile nearly an hour later, his green eyes the only colour left in his face. Sam looked no better, mouth tight, expressions flickering between bewilderment and rage and surprise.

Mom was... what, immortal? But then, why the photos of the children?

And where was she now?

Then, at the bottom, underneath the last small bundle of old photographs (Mom in Berlin after the Second World War, in uniform, standing among the piles of rubble before the Brandenburg Gate) there was an envelope addressed to _Dean and Sam Winchester_ in Dad's familiar scrawl.

"Read it out," Sam whispered, holding it out to his brother with a shaking hand, and Dean wasn't sure if it was an order or a plea, but he would have answered it either way. The letter was dated 1996.

_Boys,_

_I don't know when or even if you'll ever have to read this letter, but better safe than sorry. If I'm not around, you'll still need an explanation. Perhaps this is for me as much as for you right now, trying to make sense of what I've found out about Mary._

_Not that I blame her for keeping this from me. Maybe ten years ago, but I've lived this life for too long now to be angry at her._

_You've seen the photographs? You've read the documents? If I'm right, then she's lived for over a century. If I'm right, then Mary can never truly die. She gets reborn, over and over. I've done some research, and there really is a curse that could do that to a person. A curse, boys, so don't think for a minute that she did this to herself, that she wanted it. It's powerful, and dangerous, and I don't think there are any witches alive today who could cast it._

_What it does is bind someone's soul to this world, this… plane of existence. They're literally incapable of moving on, or even of being spirits. It's not that they can't die, it's that they can't __**stay**__ dead. They're unable to exist in that state. The curse forces them to come back, over and over. If I'm right, then Mary has had at least four different childhoods. Probably more; I'm not even sure 1883 was the first time she died. _

_Notice the sudden change in her life – lives – when she turns twenty-two? Perhaps that's when her memories come back. She's not made much effort to cover her tracks, though. On the other hand, who'd believe it if they did find anything strange about her? Well, except for us._

_Perhaps she's alive now, out there someplace, the same age as you, Sammy. Part of me wants to look for her, but she won't remember me. Besides, how many blonde thirteen-year-olds are there in America named Mary? Thousands._

_Maybe she'll come looking for us, when she gets her memories back. I don't know yet what it was that killed her, but I'm guessing she did. And I know, __**know,**__ that she loved me, loved you two, more than anything in this world. Remember that, both of you. I'm sure you're hurt by all this… you've got a right to be, I guess, but always remember that. If she can come, she will. It's the only thing I've ever had faith in._

_Stay safe, boys. Take care of each other. That's an order._

_Love, Dad._

Dean's voice broke on the last words. Sam gave a hoarse chuckle. "Yessir."

After that, they sat in silence for a long time. Mom's entire life – her very being, in a way, was spread out over the table in front of them, and it was so different from anything Dean had ever thought about her he was having a hard time believing it. He picked up the photo of Mary in Berlin, and thought back to the mother the Djinn had conjured for him, the mother he still remembered, a little.

"Who do you think cast it?" Sam asked at last, trying not sound like he'd been crying silently.

"We'll ask her when we find her," Dean said, getting to his feet. "Along with stuff like, _why didn't you tell us the truth in Lawrence,_ and _how much do you know about this Antichrist crap_."

Sam stared. "You really wanna…"

"I'm about to go to Hell for all eternity, Sam," Dean snapped. "I'd really appreciate some answers first. We'll check all the missing persons databases, every report… she won't go near the military, not so soon, too risky. You think Missouri might know something? She was the one who told us Mom had destroyed herself."

"I don't know…" Sam said slowly. The sudden surge of energy that had overtaken his brother made him blink. Dean didn't seem angry, exactly, just… determined. "Dean, listen. If this – if Dad was right, this curse could get you outta the deal!"

"I rather think you're a bit late for that," a voice said from behind them.

Dean couldn't ever remember moving that quickly: one moment they were at the table, dissecting their mother's secrets, unburied from under Dad's, and the next they were both on their feet, guns leveled at the Trickster.

"You know those won't hurt me," it said, amused.

"No," Sam said. "But shooting you is going to feel awfully good."

It laughed. "I don't know why I didn't see it," it said. "You're just like her. Both of you. In different ways, true, but still."

The room was very still after that. Dean was fiercely aware of the papers littered across the table in the Trickster's full view, of the tear-tracks he'd never admit to down his cheeks, of Sam's still-unsteady hands.

Strangely enough, the Trickster looked… almost apologetic. Kind, even. Bit shame-faced, too.

"FYI," it said. "In case you hadn't figured it out. That thing with the mystery spot? Ruby threatened me into that. She, uh, seemed to feel like Sam needed to get his priorities straight. I told her as far as I could see he _did_ for once, but you know Ruby."

It shrugged uncomfortably before continuing. "So, uh, the point is, that I, well, it seems I owe you… an apology."

Neither of the Winchester brothers made a move to lower their guns.

"Ruby arranged that?" Sam said softly, voice hard and angry and worryingly dangerous. "She tried to kill Dean?"

The Trickster didn't really need to answer that, and they all knew it. All the same, though, "As far as she's concerned he's served his purpose," it said.

"What purpose?" Dean demanded, suddenly angry. "Saving Sam? Hunting Wendigos, burning countless corpses? What purpose?"

"Killing Azazel," the Trickster replied. "But listen. I'm not really qualified to tell you about all that. There's, uh, there's someone here who wants to see you. Not a trick. I promise. I'm not that much of a bastard."

And before Dean had time to be confused he was back in Lawrence, back home looking down the barrel of a shotgun into hazel-green eyes the same shade as his own, and she was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket instead of the lacy nightgown, her hair was shorter and her face seemed thin, pinched, all angles and edges, but nothing besides those eyes and her slow tentative smile really registered on him.

His arms trembled, just like then, and the gun dropped, and then she was right in front of him.

"Mom?"

"Dean."

* * *

Mom had changed in so many ways; or perhaps Dean hadn't been old enough to remember her as she really was; but she was harder, somehow, edges and angles to her nature as well as her face, and he couldn't miss the relief that crossed it when they left the container.

She ran a loving hand across the Impala's hood when they reached it, slow little smile curving her mouth.

"You've taken good care of her."

Had her voice always been that low, that husky? Dean wasn't sure. He shrugged and smiled at the compliment.

"Yeah, well…"

"Still got my tapes?"

"Yes, ma'am. And a few additions."

"Terrible ones," Sam teased. Mom smiled again. "As long as there's no CCR," she said.

The questions, they'd agreed, could wait till breakfast. They found a diner in town (_not_ the one he and Sam had so conspicuously eaten in the last time they'd been in Black Rock), and settled in. Not until they'd all sat down did Dean – or Sam for that matter – realise how thin Mom was; almost anorexic. She should have looked no older than Sam. Instead, she seemed barely younger than Dad.

Somehow, the empty seat at the table gaped at Dean more accusingly than ever before.

"John knew? About me?" Mom wrapped both hands around her mug and looked at them, sad and solemn and maybe a little fearful.

"He found out, yeah," Dean said, fishing Dad's letter out of his jacket. "Envelope was dated 1996…"

Mom read it in silence, eyes glinting with tears, hands pushing through her hair in a gesture half-remembered by and dimly familiar to her oldest son.

"What happened to your hands?" Sam asked softly, eyes on the bandages, the swollen knuckles, the slightly twisted fingers.

Mom looked up at him, sniffed, gave them both a watery smile. "A concrete wall did. And John really never said anything to you?"

"Not a word," Sam said quietly. "We'd only just found this, when you guys showed up."

"Lucky me. I was a little worried you might shoot me first."

"Didn't in Lawrence," Dean pointed out, and then it was out before he could stop it. "Why the charade? Why not tell us the truth? Why not just come to us?"

The broken angry cry of a little boy who can't understand why his Mommy won't come home.

"Put like that, it sounds so easy," Mom said, laughing brokenly. "It wasn't. I'm a coward, OK? I was afraid to see you… afraid to tell you that everything you've been through is my fault. Afraid to admit to John that I spent our whole lives together deceiving him… afraid you'd all hate me for it."

"I'm not… really in a position to criticise," Sam murmured, thinking of Jess, but he could tell it wasn't him Mom was apologizing to.

"And when Dad died?"

Dean knew the look of _griefguiltanger _that passed over Mom's face then better than anyone.

"Concrete walls," she said, holding up her hands, and it took a moment before her sons caught on.

"For over a year?" Dean breathed. Mary shrugged. "I guess Azazel thought it would be more fun than killing me again."

Dean just looked horrified.

"How'd you get out?" Sam asked quietly.

Mom's mouth twisted. "Mother," she said simply.

The boys exchanged a puzzled look. "We have a grandmother?" Dean said.

Mom whooped. "No. Not really. I mean, you did, once, but she's dead, I guess. It's… complicated."

"Complicated how?" Sam asked. Mom didn't answer for a while, waiting until the waitress had served their breakfasts. The diner was fairly big, and full, which was why they'd chosen it; less chance of being overheard.

"Well, for one thing, she's a demon," she said at last, and Dean realised she'd been waiting in the hope that something else would come up… a favourite tactic of his own. "Anansi said you'd already met."

A demon? And one they'd already met…

"_Ruby?"_

"Fraid so. She's the one who put the curse on me, you know." Mom gave them both a slightly twisted smile, thumbs rubbing around the rim of her coffee cup.

"She tried to kill Dean," Sam said. At the moment, he was simply too stunned to think of anything else to say. At least he now understood why Ruby had wanted him to do his own research into Mom. She had wanted to know what had happened to her daughter.

They had a demon for a grandmother. The thought of what Dad would have said to _that_ was almost too much for Dean. Was this what hysteria felt like?

Mom snorted back laughter of her own. "Yeah. I never said she was nice." There was a bitter undertone to it, angry and hurt.

"Presumably we had a grandfather," Dean said at last, voice thankfully under control.

"Yes, course. Who did you think Sammy's named for?"

Blank silence again. Mom huffed. "Boys. Think. If it helps any, I was born in 1836."

This time, Dean caught on first. "Samuel Colt," he breathed. "Whoa. Samuel Colt."

Mom smiled for real now, met his eyes for almost the first time since she'd asked about Dad. "Who else?"

"And Anansi is the Trickster?" Sam said slowly. Mom nodded. "Don't blame him too much. The thing about Anansi is that he doesn't see the world the way we do. Evil, good, right, wrong, they're just words to him. Either he has fun… or he doesn't. That's how he works."

"You sound like you know him pretty well," Dean said.

"Yeah. It's – it's a long story. Not always a pretty one, either. For the most part though, we've been friends. I'm probably one of the only mortals he's ever cared about."

"You know," Dean said, "That's actually pretty damn cool."

Sam rolled his eyes, but Mom threw her head back and laughed.

"Listen, you two," she said when she'd calmed down, "I'm sure you've got more questions, and I will answer them eventually, I promise, but first things first, OK? Rumour has it you're… in a bit of trouble."

She was looking straight at Dean as she spoke, so he was pretty sure she already knew. He thinned his lips but didn't answer, found himself thinking back to Ruby's – to his grandmother's – words. _There's no way to save you, Dean. Soon, you'll be just like me. _

Sam, however, felt the need to repeat it all over again, to tell Mom exactly how screwed-up her oldest son really was.

"The idiot sold his soul for me," he said. "I died in Cold Oak, and Dean… well."

"Sitting right here, bitch," Dean snapped – the first time he'd done so all morning.

"Watch your language," Mom said, amused. "In public, at least."

"You're supposed to be pissed," Sam said, faint trace of petulant ten-year-old demanding _why aren't you on my side here?_

But Mom just stared at him. "Why?" she said. "I'd do it for either of you, in a heartbeat. Or for John. It's called _love_, Sammy."

Dean started to choke on his coffee at that point, because, sure it was, but hello, in public? And don't tell the kid to his face!

He didn't see Sam biting his lip, the brief shimmer of wetness in his eyes, Mom's broken fingers squeezing Sam's.

"Found a way out yet?" Mom asked when Dean had stopped coughing, totally not seeing the need to ask if Sam had even been looking, because _of course_ he had.

Dad would have reacted the same, Dean thought.

"Not yet," Sam admitted, pushing a hand through his hair. "I've looked everywhere, Mom, tried everything, but…"

Mom started to grin. "Well, good. That makes this easier. I _do_ have a way out. Spoke to Lilith just yesterday."

"Lilith owns my contract?" Dean said, startled into speech. He hadn't meant to say another word while they were discussing The Deal.

He hated when his head capitalized it without prior permission, too.

"My guess is, not originally," Mom said. "But she wants you because she thinks it will give her a hold over Sam."

"She'd be right-"

"That's ridiculous-"

Mom just watched them glare at each other, visibly amused. "You stupid stubborn boys," she said, fondness and warm affection in her voice. Then, with a business-like clearing of her throat, "Like I said, I spoke to Lilith. We've reached an agreement."

"Is there anyone in this family who doesn't make deals with demons on a regular basis?" Dean exploded. "I don't wanna go to hell, OK, I admit it, I'm not ashamed of it, but no welching, and no weaseling, those were the terms!"

"Oh, sit down and stop being so melodramatic," Mom said. Dean blinked; he hadn't realised he'd jumped to his feet. A few people around them were staring in surprise, and Sam looked about ready to start yelling back. "I told you, I've sorted it."

"So that's it?" Sam said, caught between hope and disbelief. "You just… you just saunter downstairs, strike a deal with Lilith, and then come back up here, and now we all head for… for Disneyland, or something?"

"Didn't John tell you Disneyland is built over the entrance to purgatory?" Mom demanded. "Of course it's not that simple. In fact, it's going to be bloody hard work."

"What did you trade for me?" Dean asked quietly.

Mom's smile was slow and savage and fiercely amused. "Lilith wanted Sam dead. I told her I'd bring her Sammael. Seh failed to catch on to the difference, the stupid bitch. Now, there's a spell we'll need… it's very old, and very dangerous, so if any of your friends have a decent-sized library...?"


	4. to bring the balance back

_AN: Pacta sunt servanda is a tenet of Roman law which means that a contract, once made, must be fulfilled._

* * *

**To bring the balance back**

The Winchesters arrived at Bobby Singer's place a day later than they'd meant to, and he had been getting a little worried. Dean's deal was almost due, and to say the boys were in trouble was something of an understatement; as far as he knew, Sam had not been able to find anything that would help him save his brother.

Although apparently they _had_ found a girl. Trust those two. She climbed out of the back seat of the Impala with an awkward grace, blonde hair cut to shoulder-length, jeans and a man's leather jacket. Recovering from injuries, Bobby thought; that was why her movements seemed a little off-kilter. Gave the junk-yard an interested look, surveying it all carefully before following the boys over to him.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean said, looking unnaturally cheerful for a guy who's about to go to Hell, "how you been?"

"You're late," Bobby retorted, ignoring the question. "Who's your friend?" Not that he didn't trust them, but times were strange to say the least, so he felt he had the right to be a little suspicious.

Sam started to grin. "Well…"

The girl sauntered up to them with a very familiar smile curving her mouth. Hazel-green eyes and that sharp nose… Bobby was sure he'd seen her face before. He guessed her age at mid-twenties, like Sam; but up close, she looked pretty bad, too-thin and very pale.

"I'm Mary Winchester," she said, voice low and husky as if her throat were bruised and raw. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Singer. I've heard a lot about you from Dean and Sammy."

Bobby just gaped. Out of his sight for five minutes and they show up again with a chick claiming to be their dead mother?

"Mom's… kind of immortal," Sam said, biting on his lower lip to keep in the laughter.

"Emphasis on the 'kind of'," Mary said. "It's all a little complicated."

"I think," Bobby said carefully, dropping the wrench and stepping away from the car he'd been tinkering with, "I think this calls for a drink. Or three."

"They're spiked with holy water," Dean told Mary cheerfully.

"I won't even grimace," she promised.

* * *

Mary was pretty sure Singer's first instinct had been to ask the boys 'Are you mad?', but to his credit, he waited until he thought she was out of earshot.

"This is… look, boys. This is ridiculous."

"Jesus fuck, Bobby," Dean hissed. "You think we don't know what we're doing? What would Lilith possibly gain from setting this up?"

"I don't know," Singer said sharply. "But listen. Immortality's a myth, Dean. Impossible for humans. There's no spell on earth that could grant you it, and no witch powerful enough to cast it."

"I said _kind of_ immortal," Mary said, rejoining them. Singer looked a little embarrassed, but still suspicious.

"You'll forgive me for thinking that's crap, ma'am," he said dryly.

"Show him John's letter," Mary said quietly. The boys exchanged a quick uncomfortable look – they were close to Singer, but this was too private and personal for comfort. Then Sam handed it over. Singer read it through with – surprise? Disbelief? Mary wasn't sure. A part of her was just as reluctant as the boys to show the man John's letter, but they needed his help, so they had to convince him she wasn't a demon.

"I remember…" Singer said slowly. "He mentioned this once, this curse. I couldn't figure out where he'd heard it, or why he was interested – hell, I'm not sure I ever believed the thing existed."

Mary was all too aware of the bitter lilt to her laughter. "However. I'm the living proof of it."

Singer eyed her curiously, and then seemed to decide to go for it. "More or less living, anyway. You look terrible."

Same tone and look as he'd given the boys: blunt, honest, straightforward. No wonder he and John had fallen out; her husband had the same habit of telling truths you didn't want to hear, only worse.

Mary decided she liked him. "It's a very long story that we really don't have time for, Singer. First I need your help if I'm going to get Dean out of this deal."

Singer stared at her. "You know a way to break a Faustian pact?"

Mary grinned. "There's no way to break a Faustian pact, Singer. _Pacta sunt servanda_; it's a part of the whole free will thing. You want someone out of a deal with a demon, you gotta offer them a better one. And the particular genius of this plan of mine is that it effectively gets rid of two birds with one stone."

If Bobby still had any doubts about her, they were swept away by that smirk. Every curve and line of it was the same as Dean's.

* * *

A short while later, the Winchesters and Bobby sat in the living room, surrounded by books and mugs of coffee. Mary was staring into hers thoughtfully; when they'd all settled in, she put it down and turned to Sam.

"All right then. Let's get started. Sammy, do you know what Azazel did to you that night?"

"How d'you mean, _did_?" Dean asked blankly.

Sam shifted a little, cleared his throat, glanced over at him. "He – uh – he made me – um – there's demon blood in me."

"_What!_" Dean yelled, practically jumping up. "Demon blood! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oi," Mary muttered, leaning back her chair with a grimace. Singer looked equally amazed.

"You were gonna go to Hell, I didn't want to… worry you." Sam didn't even yell back. Mary almost swore he squirmed, like Dean's anger was the only thing that could make him feel bad about anything.

"_Worry me?"_ If possible, Dean's next yell got even louder.

Mary slammed the mug down on the table with a _thunk_. "Enough, she said, voice low and angry. "You can row about this later. _We_ can row about this later; Sam, the next time you keep secrets like that from either of us I'll kill you myself, clear? I'd have thought you'd realised by now that this isn't something you can keep to yourself without consequences."

If she'd been Dad, Sam would have yelled right back. But Mom had a quiet intensity to her when angry that was more than a little frightening.

Dean, on the other hand, didn't look in the least bit intimidated. He subsided into his chair still glaring furiously, dividing it up between mother and brother.

God, Mary wished John was here. He, surely, would know how to deal with this… would be able to stop the argument before it even started.

"All right. We done with the temper-tantrums? Good."

Singer, she couldn't help but notice, looked amused. He tipped his mug to her, almost imperceptibly; a sort of congratulations, a bit of encouragement, like he knew what a handful they were.

Mary was almost sure he hadn't meant for the gesture to hurt her the way it did, the idea that a stranger knew her sons better than she did.

"Do you know about Lilith? What she's up to?"

"Broadly, yes," Singer answered. "Takin' your yellow-eyed friend's place, right?"

"She's got a contract on us, too," Dean added.

"Doesn't everybody?" Singer said dryly.

Mary grinned. "It's a little more complicated than that. Lilith wants her competition out of the picture, see. She wants to able to tell her hordes that her claim to Azazel's throne is undisputed. She can't do that if his designated heir is still around. Her position's still precarious. She's not totally accepted yet, and she'll go to any lengths to strengthen it. Demon politics aren't so different than the human ones, you know."

"Demons have politics," Dean muttered with a grimace. "But if she's so eager to get Sam out of the way, why stop to make a deal with you, Mom? Why not just saunter in and kill us all"

"She's afraid of me," Mary said, still grinning. It had an almost savage slant now. "They all are. It's one of the few advantages of my… condition. They don't know what I am, see. I'm human, true… but obviously not pure human enough to die permanently. Not to mention I'm pretty much the best there is in this business."

Singer laughed. "That title used to be John's," he said.

"Tell me why I'm not surprised. John can't lose at _anything_. He literally doesn't know how."

Mary didn't even realise she'd used the present tense until she saw Dean look away, eyes clouding over. She knew he was dead, Mother had told her, the boys had told her the whole story just the other night, the cabin, Azazel, the crash, their voices low and broken, but still, somehow, she couldn't comprehend it, not really. John dead – the idea was ridiculous, because he was _John_, always solid and unshakeable and _there_.

She shook off the sharp sting of grief and forced her mind back to the issue at hand.

"So. The terms Lilith agreed to were these: if I bring her Sammael, she will release Dean from his contract, and has sworn an oath never to raise a hand against my bloodline again."

"Sneaky," Singer observed. "And dangerous. What if she'd noticed?"

Mary shook her head. "Didn't you hear me say she was desperate? And she's always been careless. Doesn't stop to think things through. As a rule, she doesn't need to. Too much raw power to back her up."

"OK," Sam said. "So… look. I don't understand how you're going to give her me, but not?"

"Sammael, not Sam," Dean said slowly, feeling his way through it. "It's not natural. The blood, the demon blood, it's like – it's a sort of… of alien entity?"

God, she was proud of him.

"You know the fairy-tale about the Snow Queen? The one by Hans Christian Anderson?"

Dean sat forward, eyes bright with excitement, and she knew it had clicked. "You mean the boy? Kay, right? The one with the-"

"-shard of the Devil's mirror in his heart," Mary said, nodding.

"Dude," Sam said. "Snow Queens?"

"Sammy, come on. You don't remember that?"

"_I_ remember the story. Why do _you?_"

"There was a whole book of them! I used to have to read them to you all the frickin' time."

"You did?"

"Yes! Every single day. Dad wasn't allowed _near _it."

"…huh."

"I can not believe you don't remember that."

"Sorry. But, uh… how's it relevant?"

Mary smiled at them. The idea of John not being allowed to read Sam stories made her giggle inwardly; he'd always been the one to read to Dean. And her. She loved his voice; his deep warm drawl had been one of the first things she'd noticed about him. "Well, the story is about a boy who gets a shard of an enchanted mirror in his heart, right? After that, he's only able to see the bad in people, their worst traits. Azazel did something very similar to you, Sam."

"Alien entity, Sammy," Dean said, sounding almost gleeful. "John Hurt moments, coming up!"

"You can't be serious!" Sam said, sounding horrified.

"There's not gonna be any blood involved, ya eejit," Singer said with an eye-roll.

"Oh, there probably will, actually. But nothing's going to explode out of your chest, Sam, I promise you. Nothing corporeal, anyway."

Dean snickered. Sam just stared at his mother, still disbelieving. "I – Mom – I'm not possessed, you know."

"I know, Sammy. Possessions are easier to get rid of, believe me."

"But then-"

Mary leaned over the table towards him. "In giving you his blood, Azazel put a shard of himself inside you, Sam. A splinter of demon that latched on to you, gave you certain abilities, forged a connection between him and you, and probably between you and the other kids as well. But it's _not you_, do you understand? They aren't _your _abilities. They may well have latched on to some latent psychic power of your own – I wouldn't be surprised if both of you had a gift or two – but the point is that Azazel _forced_ them on you."

"But how does that make me two different people?" Sam protested.

"It doesn't. But what you need to understand about this… this splinter of demon you're carrying around within you is that it's a parasite, Sammy. The whole trick to what Azazel did to you is that it _grows_. You understand? It feeds on you. On your… your negative emotions, if we're going to be new age-y about this. It feeds on your pain, and your fear, on guilt and anger. All these things make it stronger, see. Eventually, if you let it, it will be powerful enough to swallow you whole, to become you. A demonic version of Sam Winchester that has no humanity left, no compassion or mercy or love. To all intents and purposes, you become a demon as surely as if you'd spent a thousand years in Hell. And the really genius part? Technically, you'd still be human. No exorcism, no Devil's Trap, no salt or iron could stop you."

Sam was staring at her wide-eyed and pale. "That's what happened to Jake, and Ava," he said quietly. "It took them over, and they…"

"They had to want it," Mary said. "They had to invite it. That's what free will is. A choice."

"Could Dad have known this?" Dean asked softly. "About Sam turning into a demon?"

"He knew enough to summon Azazel," Mary said quietly. "The last person to discover his name was my Father."

Dean nodded slowly, lost in thought. Mary wondered briefly if John had said anything to him, hinted at this.

"How did you know about it, Mom?" Sam asked suddenly. She smiled faintly. "Father guessed some. This isn't the first time Azazel has tried something like this."

"So now what?" Singer asked quietly. "If this shard of demon inside Sam is what you're going to trade for Dean…"

"There's a way to separate them," Mary said. "Like drawing a splinter – I can reach in and pull it out. But what I'm going to need after that is a curse-box strong enough to hold this thing, and that won't be easy to find. I saw the ones you made for John in Black Rock, and they're not enough."

"Somehow I get the impression you already know where to find one," Singer said.

Mary laughed. "My Father used to make them. But how we'd find them now is another question."

"Do I need to do anything?" Sam cut in. "To get it out, that is."

"You need to want it out," Mary told him. "And you need to trust me inside your head."

Dean whooped. "Sam doesn't trust anyone inside his head," he declared.

His brother threw a balled-up paper at him. "If this is what it takes to save your sorry ass, then I'll do it," he said.

"Charming, boys."

Dean sat studying his brother for a minute before looking over at her. "There another way?"

"Dean!" Sam shouted, but their mother simply nodded.

"Sure there is. I could put the same curse on you that Mother laid on me. It would bind your soul to earth and keep it out of Lilith's clutches, but frankly, I advise against it. It's only another form of imprisonment, you know, putting up with pain and fear and death and the horrors only humans can inflict on each other over and over instead of just once. Gets kinda lonely, too. The only good thing ever came out of it for me was John. And, consequently, you two. Which is quite a bit, I admit… but still."

"So where, exactly, are we going to find this curse-box?" Sam asked, glaring at Dean. "I mean, if it's… oh, no."

Dean began to grin. "Two birds with one stone. C'mon, it'll be fun. Introducing her to Mom, if nothing else."

Mary wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. "Introducing who to me?"

"Bela Talbot," the boys chorused.

"The girl who stole Father's pistol while you two were… what, exactly?"

"Dreamwalkin'," Dean said, still cheerful. "Mercenary who sells occult items for lots of money. Last time we heard from her, she had a place in New York. After that, she contrived to get us arrested, and…yeah. Complicated. But you can find her, right?"

Definitely a compliment, Mary decided. "Of course I can, love. Let me just go outside and fetch my genie costume."

Dean tilted his head off to one side the way he'd used to at four whenever he thought someone was having him on.

"Mom. Please."

Mary gave in. "I'll need something that belonged to her, or that she touched at one time, so we'll have to go to New York… but yeah. After that, we're all good."

Dean started to smirk.

* * *

They left South Dakota the next day. Singer had offered to come, just in case, but neither Mary nor the boys wanted anyone else around for any length of time right now, so they'd found what they needed in his library and left with promises to come back as soon as Dean was free.

Now, the Impala was rumbling down the highway, headed east. Sam had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, and Mary was driving. Dean leaned forward over the back of the front seat, hooking his elbows over it, chin on his hands right next to her.

"You OK?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Mom-" he hesitated, not looking at her, tired eyes fixed on some point in the distance ahead.

"Anything you wanna know, love."

"Our grandfather didn't know about this – about Sam, did he? You just didn't want Bobby to know the whole story."

"You should drop that 'dumb small-town mechanic' act more often," Mary said, tapping her thumbs lightly against the steering wheel. "No, I didn't. I'm not very trusting with information about myself. You, John, and Anansi are the only people besides Mother to know anything about me."

"You've got powers like Sam's, haven't you?"

"Not exactly. They're Mother's legacy, so that makes them mine. Exclusively. I'm just like you, Dean; I've just got a few more… talents."

Dean hmmed and pursed his lips in thought. Mary reached over and gave him a little push backwards. "Go to sleep, love. I'll wake you up when I get tired."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at her. "Which will be when?"

"Oh, I don't know. Never?"

She watched him curl up on the back seat in the rearview mirror; awkward, cramped, but he managed, eyes falling shut almost instantly. Mary could see John in his hands, his nose, the line of his jaw, and she smiled at him sadly before turning her attention back to the highway and the black night they were racing through.


	5. embraced the gloom

**Embraced the gloom**

Maybe three hours after Dean had fallen asleep, Mary pulled over. The headache had been building, quiet but inexorable, for a while now, and she'd pretty much ignored it, but then her hands started to burn and ache, maltreated joints screaming in protest, and not long after that her vision was blurry and she was trembling with weakness.

Hell and damnation. Even when she wasn't there, Mother could still ruin all her plans.

She opened the trunk quiet as possible, not wanting to wake the boys, wincing with every movement of her hands, and rummaged through her bag till she found it: the flask of that potion that Mother had made for her.

Mary knocked it back without hesitation and then slumped against the car, sitting on the edge of the trunk, waiting for it to kick in, for the warmth to seep through her veins and the trembling stop. Slowly, the ache in her hands died down, and she could move them again without sobbing in pain.

"Pathetic," she said out loud and bitterly. "You're turning into a junkie. Thank you very much, Mother."

"Mom?"

Mary practically jumped out of her skin. "God, Sammy. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"What's that stuff you're drinking?"

"Scotch," she said. "Finest Glenfidditch."

Sam tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and gave her John's best _don't-give-me-that-crap_ look, with an undercurrent of _I'll-keep-asking-till-you-tell_ that was all his own.

Mary sighed and tipped the flask towards him so he could see the greenish liquid. "Not absinthe, don't worry. You may have noticed I'm not in the best shape, and this… helps."

"It's a drug?"

"Sort of, I guess. Mother found it for me."

Sam got this screwed-up rather pissy look that Mary had seen him use on Dean once or twice, when he thought his brother was being an idiot. "After everything, you're trusting Ruby with your continued good health?"

"She's my mother, Sam. No matter how much of a bitch she is about everything else, she's not going to kill me. It's annoying, and awkward. That's all."

Sam did not look convinced.

"Is Dean still asleep?"

He glanced behind him, into the back of the Impala, and nodded.

"Good. Don't tell him about this, Sammy. He's worried enough over this family."

Sam chuckled, low and harsh and regretful. "You're tellin' me."

"Hey," she said as he turned away; Sam looked back at her, eyebrows raised. "When this is over, I'll go straight back to hospital."

"Promise?" he said, smiling now. Mary nodded, squeezed his hand.

* * *

Breaking into Bela's apartment was the easy bit. It was empty, but pristine, exactly as Dean had seen it all those months ago.

"I don't know how she can bear to live in this place," Sam muttered. "It's paid for in blood money."

"What, you think credit card fraud is a victimless crime?" Dean retorted.

"Then why do it? We could get day jobs."

The absent, almost automatic way they spoke made Mary suspect they'd had this argument many times before; Dean's next words confirmed that.

"How many times, Sam? We already _have_ a day job. Mom, back me up."

Mary laughed out loud. The place was deserted, so she didn't bother to be quiet. "It's none of my business how you gentlemen finance your hunting trips."

"Well, how do you?" Sam wanted to know. His mother flashed him a grin. "I hate to have to tell you this, Sammy, but I'm probably a bigger thief than this Talbot girl and your brother put together."

Dean snickered. "You see how it is, Sammy, you're the only member of this family with any morals left."

"To say the least. John used to vote Republican."

"I know," Dean said as she moved past him into Bela's bedroom, looking for personal items she could use. "It was awful."

"You've never participated in an election in your entire life," Sam was accusing his brother as Mary came back into the living room.

"Really? And you know this how?" Dean asked rather acidly.

"Dude. You've never been in the least bit interested in politics."

"You know, Sam, it's lucky I've got you around. I don't know how I'd get through life without you to tell me what I'm interested in and what not."

"Dean-"

"Boys," Mary cut in. "Silence in the cheap seats, please." It was so precisely what John would have said – even down to the intonation – that both of them jumped, although Mary didn't realise that was why.

Then Dean grinned. "Yes, ma'am," he said smartly, and Sam chuckled.

Mary, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a bowl of water with a lit candle on either side, gave them both a look. "And don't come your Dad's ex-Marine crap with me." She dropped a pair of Bela's earrings into the water and bent forward, began to chant in Latin.

Scrying was like being high in some ways. It literally opened your mind, showed you people and places far away in flashes and glimpses that came and went with dizzying speed until, at last, like being on a merry-go-round as the ride ended, the images slowed, focused, became sharper, more clearly defined, and then Mary was looking at Bela Talbot.

They were about the same height; Talbot's light brown hair was streaked with blonde, her eyes a cool, calculating grey. Her face was almost too perfect, plastic in its flawless make-up, and how anyone could believe her charming smile was beyond Mary.

But maybe she was a little biased, after all.

Talbot was sitting in someone's office, the airy, clean, impersonal office of a banker or CEO. She wore an expensive, well-cut business suit, and on the desk in front of her lay a long wooden case just the right size to hold Father's pistol.

The view shifted a little, widening to show Mary the rest of the room, and she let out a hiss of mingled horror and anger.

The man sitting opposite Bela Talbot was her current 'father' Richard Collins.

Mary broke the contact with an angry jerk and started to swear.

* * *

"But this is good, right?" Dean said when she'd explained. "I mean… we've got an in, you know?"

"Oh, sure," Mary huffed. "Just show up again on their doorstep with you guys and go 'hi, everyone, didja miss me?'"

"Yeah, why not? Say you were off finding yourself or something. Every proper spoiled little rich girl does it."

"Dude…" Sam said with an eye-roll, but Mary chuckled suddenly. "You know what? They're just dumb enough that it might work."

* * *

Mary had never been back to one of her old 'homes' before. As the Impala navigated the Manhattan streets, she felt an odd sense of déjà vu rather than memory, as though she'd seen the streets, the shops, the cafes, the people, in a dream rather than reality. It was a little spooky.

The boys waited in the road with the Impala as she made her way through the garden up to the Collins house. Mary could remember it all so clearly, the perfect lawns, the tree she'd sprained her wrist falling out of at ten, the swimming pool she'd learned to swim in…

She should have been glad to be back, a part of her thought. But they weren't her memories. This wasn't her home. Not really.

Mary Collins was gone, dead, never coming back. Mary Colt had grown up in the streets of Hartford in the 1830's, a half-wild bastard witch child dressed as a boy who'd befriended demigods and summoned ghosts for the entertainment of her urchin friends, foul-mouthed and filthy. Her mother was a demon, and Father had been Sam Colt, tall and sandy-blond and indestructible, who'd taught her to fight, to shoot a gun and track a Wendigo and forge a bullet that could kill anything.

These people were nothing to her. Just a means to an end. Dean and Sammy were all that mattered, now John was gone.

That didn't stop her wishing she was walking up to Father's house in Hartford, though. She wanted to see him again, talk to him, ask about Mother, introduce him to his grandsons. He would have liked John instantly. Somehow, the knowledge that Richard Collins would not just made her ache all the more.

Her 'mother' Sarah opened the door when Mary rang the bell, and burst into sobs before she even said _hello_, flinging her arms around Mary and clinging on.

"Oh, Mary, Mary, where have you been?" she choked out. "We've been so worried… the police called, they'd found some poor girl in Colorado who'd been abducted who fit your description, and I thought – I thought-"

"Hey, Mom, c'mon. It's OK, I'm fine, really. I'm not hurt." Mary was staggering a little under Sarah's weight, hugging her awkwardly. Mother never hugged her like this.

"OK? You disappear for two years and it's OK? I know you had a problem or two with your Dad, but…"

Sarah had pushed back now, fingers digging deeply into her 'daughter's' shoulders, eyes red and swollen, tears still threatening. Mary was trying to remember her problems with Richard… oh yeah, he'd wanted her to go to Harvard, study law. She'd been more interested in med school.

Well, at least she now had the medical knowledge to back up some kind of story about studying somewhere else.

"Oh, honey, you look so pale…" Then Sarah spotted the boys. "Mary… are they friends of yours?"

"Yes!" Mary said promptly, glad of the distraction, dragging her down the path to meet them. "Yes, uh… guys. My mother Sarah. Mom, this is Dean and Sam. Friends from college…"

She could just picture the look on John's face if he ever heard about _this_ mess. He'd laugh his ass off.

"Hello," Sarah said, caught between politeness and disapproval – most of the boys Mary Collins had known had worn suits and ties, or at the very least designer jeans.

"Mrs. Collins," Sam said cheerfully, shaking hands with her. "Hope you don't mind us dropping like this. Mary and I were at Stanford together, and when my brother and I decided we'd be coming through here on a road-trip home, I kinda… dragged her along."

Damn, he was good.

"I wasn't sure if Dad would want to see me," she said as Sarah turned to her, a little hurt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Sam's surprise, Dean's eye-roll. What?

"Oh, but honey… I mean, that was a long time ago," Sarah said. "I'm sure everything will be just fine."

The tone of her voice said differently. Mary waited till she'd ushered them all inside, into the living room and poured the coffee before pouncing.

"Mom, has something happened? You don't sound like you're sure about Dad."

"Do you mind?" Sarah said quietly; she'd regained her composure. "Bad enough you show up unannounced in company, but if you think I'm going to…"

"I do and you are," Mary said, more sharply than she'd meant to perhaps. "Tell me. Or I'm gone. I won't hang around here just to be bitched at and insulted when he gets back."

Sarah drew an angry breath, and beside her, Mary thought she felt Dean tense up. But then her 'mother' seemed to collapse a little, shrink in on herself.

"Mary, I'm sorry. It's just… Richard, he's… he's not been himself lately. Said some strange things, been talking to some even stranger people. Buying antiques… that's not like him. We barely talk anymore. But now you're home, maybe it'll be OK, maybe things will get better."

Before Mary could say anything to that, Dean jumped in. He'd been chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip all the way over here, and Mary felt a flicker of apprehension. The last time she'd seen him look like that, he and Anubis, his stuffed puppy, had been digging a tunnel to Australia in the middle of her flowerbeds in the front yard, destroying her pansies in the process.

John had found that absolutely hilarious, too.

"Mrs. Collins, I have a confession to make, ma'am. I'm not here on a road-trip. Or by coincidence. I'm with the FBI. We're looking into a recent rash of art robberies, break-ins in museums. There's a dealer here in New York that seems to be connected to it, and your husband has been seen with them once or twice."

Sarah stared at him, clutching rather melodramatically at the collar of her blouse, like a character in a Jane Austen adaptation. "Is… is Richard in trouble?"

"Not likely, ma'am. So far, everyone we've been able to track down who's bought any of these stolen goods has had good reason to believe Miss Talbot was operating quite legally, in some cases even in the name of the museum supposedly selling the artifact."

"Talbot? Yes, that's… that's her. The dealer. I met her at this party…"

"Is there anything you can tell me about this new hobby of your husband's, ma'am?"

"I, well, not really. Like I said, he doesn't talk about it – keeps all his acquisitions in his offices. But I think he's especially interested in antique guns? He's mentioned inventions by Samuel Colt once or twice."

Dean smiled. "Mrs. Collins, you've been a great help. Thank you. Now, if I could borrow your daughter for a little longer… I need a legitimate excuse to be seen with your husband, see. If Talbot realises we're on to her, we'll never find out who's in charge of the operation."

There wasn't really much Sarah could say to that other than 'yes, of course'. Dean promised they'd bring Mary back the minute it was all over, and then, once Sarah had given her 'daughter' another tearful hug, they were gone.

"Wow," Mary said as they got in the car. "I mean… seriously. Wow."

"We _are_ good at this, you know," Dean said, sounding a little affronted.

"I can tell, love."

"From a guy who hates the Feds," Sam laughed. "Dude. You just… yeah."

Dean blinked. "Thank you," he said, slow and a little uncertain, like he wasn't used to admiration from Sam. But then he added, "All older brothers are awesome, of course, but I'm the best," and Sammy huffed.

"Dream on, flyboy. I'm a better Fed than you any day."

"Oh, really? You wanna bet? Cause the last time I remember you beating me at anything, it was _soccer_."

"What's wrong with soccer? It takes skill!"

"It sucks ass, Sammy."

"You're just jealous cause I got the trophies."

"You're absolutely right. I'm terribly jealous. Hunting with Dad was by no means a better way to waste my time."

"You spent more of your teenage years in detention than you did on hunts with Dad, Dean."

"Gentlemen!" Mary said, trying to hold in the laughter. "A little focus, here?"

"That line'd be way more convincing if you weren't laughing your ass off," Dean smirked, totally unrepentant.

"Shush up, you. Listen, if Sarah thinks he's been acting out of character, being secretive –"

"Possession," the boys chorused.

"Right. Anyone in particular you can think of who'd want the pistol?"

"It won't be Lilith," Sam mused. "She wants this deal to go down. Or at the very least, she thinks she's won either way."

"I thought the only other faction was yours," Dean said. "And we all know who your most ardent supporter is, Sam."

"There might be others," Mary said. "Lilith isn't the only demon powerful enough to stake a claim on Azazel's position. It might even be personal. I've pissed a lot of them off over the last century."

"Personal…" Sam said, and Dean groaned. "Dude. No way. I exorcised her sorry ass. Twice!"

"It's a possibility, though," Sam insisted.

"What is?" Mary asked sharply. "What 'she' are we talking about?"

"Meg," Dean growled, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "The one who trapped Dad in Jefferson City, killed Pastor Jim and Caleb."

"Possessed me," Sam added, quick and quiet and harsh, like that would stop the memories.

"Well, we're not sure of anything yet," Mary said, rush of rage flooding her at the sight of Sam's pained face, the thought of John going through what she had, those months in that cell. "But if it is her, I think I want her dead this time."

There was an edge to her voice that sent a shiver down Dean's spine. Mom had a ruthless determination to her that not even Dad could match, like she'd allow nothing and no one to stand in the way of what she wanted. Even at his most stubborn, Dad had still been able to step aside from something if he had to. Mom would step _on_ it, and carry right on regardless.

Like Sam. And, though both Mom and Sam would probably deny it, like Ruby.

"So we get up there, exorcise Collins, get the Colt–" But then Dean caught sight of Mom shaking her head at him.

"Only if we have to. I'm not here to rid the Upper East Side of demons, Dean. I'm here to thrash the location of my Father's curse-boxes out of that Talbot bitch so Sam and I can perform this damn ritual and get you out of the deal. We haven't got much time left."

"We can't just let her sit around here wreaking havoc-" Dean started to protest, but Mom cut him off again.

"We can play _World of Warcraft_ with Lilith later. This is about _you_."

"You can't let them do-"

"_Dean!_ For the last fucking time! I'm not here to save the world. Just you. Clear? Good. Turn left up here."

There wasn't really much Dean could say to that.


	6. beads of time pass slow

**Beads of time pass slow**

Richard Collins was a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in New York, and getting in to his office should have been just about impossible for Dean and Sam by themselves. But Mary sauntered into the glass-and-chrome skyscraper as if it belonged to her, greeted the receptionist like an old friend, and got them buzzed up to the top floor in no time.

None of them were armed, which Dean had not been happy with, but not even Mary could have got them past security then. She was banking on her ability to bluff her way out of any situation that arose with Collins; for anything else, they should have Father's pistol.

It was early evening, and the sky was slowly turning a deep blood red as they left the elevator and made their way through the corridors to Collins' office. Neither of Mary's sons had missed her nervousness in the small enclosed space, the way she squeezed her eyes shut on entering, her clenched fists, but they both knew her well enough already to know that saying anything was a Bad Idea.

Collins had the biggest office of them all, of course. He wasn't there when they slipped inside, but that suited the Winchesters just fine. Bookshelves stuffed with legal tomes lined the walls, and there was a leather three-piece suite sitting around a glass coffee table in the middle of the office. The heavy desk was littered with papers and photos, and against the wall to the right of it hung a large poster of a Monet painting.

Mary crossed over to it, reached out a hand, and then stepped back with a sudden laugh. "I forgot. Could one of you get this off the wall for me, please?"

"Sure, Mom." Sam maneuvered it off the hook and set it gently down. Mary smiled at him. "Thank you."

"It's all kinda obvious, dontcha think?" Dean said disapprovingly, surveying the safe in the wall that was now revealed.

"Some clichés are just too fun to pass up," Mary grinned.

"How are we gonna get it open?" Sam asked. "I mean, stealing is one thing, but safecracking?"

"Won't need to. Watch." Mary moved past him, laid a hand against the cold metal of the door, and closed her eyes.

It was the one trick she found easiest, the one thing she could never quite believe other people weren't capable of. People leave traces of themselves wherever they go, and she didn't mean DNA; it was more than that, and less at the same time, a sort of trail of energy, of personality, tiny fragments of thoughts and feelings, and all she had to do was tap into them, find the right one…

She turned the lock without consciously realising it, still lost in Collins' thoughts, and didn't snap out of it until the door swung wide and she nearly hit her shoulder against the edge.

The safe was way bigger than it needed to be, in Mary's opinion: three shelves high, the top one stuffed with files, the second one empty, but the third! Oh, the third.

She dropped to her knees and eased the revolver case she'd seen when scrying out of the small pile of boxes. Behind her, Dean jerked forward a little, but Sam caught his arm, held him back.

Mary unsnapped the lid and lifted it, and there it was, nestled in silk, long and lethal-looking. The stock was worn and dark with age, but it sat as perfectly in her hand as ever, heavy but balanced just right, made for her. She rubbed her thumb over the words engraved into the barrel, remembered sitting on Father's knee when he showed her the pistol for the first time, chubby little fingers tracing the designs reverently.

_It was made on the same night you were, you know. One day, princess, this gun will be yours. _

_When, Father? When?_

_When you're old enough, princess. When you're ready for the responsibility that goes with it. Has your mother told you what the words mean? Non timebo mala._

"I will fear no evil," she whispered softly, and scrubbed the tears away with the sleeve of her shirt. "I promise, Father."

She stood up then, turned to her sons, held out the pistol to Dean.

"Here. Take it."

"But, Mom…"

"It's yours. You've earned it."

He took it gently, reverently, holding it as carefully as she had. Somehow, she'd never realised how much he looked like Father until now, but there it was: same hair colour, same eyes, same smile.

"He'd be very proud of both of you. Not as proud as I am, of course… but still."

Sam had Father's smile, too.

The rest of the boxes held more guns, revolvers mostly, although there was one long Winchester rifle at the back. All were antiques, in good condition, and probably worth quite a bit. The boys were a little awkward with them, obviously unused to these older, heavier, ungainly guns rather than their own more streamlined weapons, but every time Mary picked one up she felt like she'd come home, familiar weight and motions more comforting than she would have admitted.

"No curse boxes," Sam said. "We're gonna have to track Bela down after all."

"Looks like," Mary agreed, straightening, up, and then froze.

The office door closed behind Mother with a snap; Dean had Father's pistol in his hands, ready to shoot her.

"Well," she said. "I wasn't expecting this. I thought you would have come to your senses by now, Sam."

"That was you, with the Trickster," Sam said, voice shaking with anger. "You tried to kill Dean."

"Wake up and smell the roses, Sammy. _This is war._ The world can't afford to have you waste yourself on a lost cause."

"Thanks for the compliment," Dean snarked.

Ruby smirked back. "Not at all. It's way past time you realised this has gone far, far beyond your own personal tragic little microcosm, boys. We're talking fate of the world, and all you can give a damn about is each other? So much for the noble better-than-them good guys. But then, considering who your mother is, I shouldn't be surprised. She's always been a selfish brat."

"I learned from the best," Mary said dryly. "You know, I'm amazed you had the guts to show up here, Mother. Especially after the hospital."

"It took me a while to get out," Mother conceded. "Where's my knife?"

"Dropped it in the Mississippi on the way over here," Mary deadpanned.

"Go figure. Are you about ready to stop all this? All things considered, you're a bit old to still be making your decisions based solely on the criteria 'what will fuck Mother off the most', Mary. "

"You know, if this were any other family, I'd say you're probably right. As it is, though, I'm having a blast."

Mother took a step towards her, face tight with anger. "For God's sake, Mary. Don't be a fool. Walking into Lilith's court like that? They could have torn you apart."

"Yet I'm still here. Thanks mostly to you, of course."

Neither woman looked over at the boys. Mary had almost forgotten they were there. She'd argued with Mother before, but never so completely, so fiercely, as over the last few weeks, and it was make-or-break time now.

"Why did you do it?"

"To save your life."

"Liar. Did Father know what the curse was?"

"No. Only that it would keep you alive. I've never had the illusion he'd side with me if it came down to a choice between us."

"This isn't a competition, for God's sake."

"This is a war. I did what I had to to ensure that Azazel would be destroyed."

For the first time, Mary's eyes left her, went to Dean and Sam.

"You mean…"

"I had to make sure you'd be alive long enough to conceive Azazel's killer. Had no idea who his father would be, you see. I admit I was expecting you to bring him up as well, but that soldier of yours did a decent enough job, I suppose."

"You bitch," Dean whispered. "You planned _everything?_ You thought…"

"I thought the baby I conceived by Sam Colt would be you," Mother shrugged. "When Mary turned out to be a girl, I knew I'd miscalculated by a few years. I couldn't risk Sam's descendants dying out, though, so I made sure she'd still be alive no matter when Azazel made his move."

"And now you're finished with me, I land on the scrapheap," Dean said angrily. "I should have shot you months ago."

"In which case you would never have found Mary," Mother pointed out. "And _I'm_ not throwing you away, Dean. You did that all by yourself. I'm simply seeing the big picture. Doing what's best for everyone. Like you should be. All of you. Put those cases back and come with me. We've got work to do still."

"Hypocritical bitch," Mary said calmly. "You're doing this for as personal a reason as I am."

"Is that a no?"

"That's a _you still don't get it, do you?_ I don't care about the big picture. I'm not fighting your war, Mother. Not now, not ever. I'm not here for any noble cause, I'm in this because I have no other choice. What do you think I care about the fate of the world? I'd open the Gates myself if that's what it takes to save Dean, or Sam. I'd watch it all go down in fire and blood in exchange for _one more day_ with John. But you never could understand that, could you?"

Her voice was quiet, slow, quivering with intensity. The boys were watching her wide-eyed and tense.

Mother sighed. "The Talbot bitch is headed up this way now, with a demon. You'd better leave."

"Go bribe your way into someone else's good graces. Lilith, for example. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to have the architect of Azazel's downfall on her side."

Mother left without answering or looking back.

Mary let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, and felt like whooping for sheer joy. The second time in less than a month that she'd outfaced Mother – really, truly, over something important! It was a strange feeling, this triumph.

"Mom?" Sam said softly. "We've got the Colt now. We should wait for Bela."

Mary nodded, still watching the door, half-expecting Mother to come back and… well, Mary didn't know what, but _something_. That was how the bitch was programmed. "Yeah. OK."

But Dean's next words made her jump. "Did you mean it? About the fate of the world, and everything?"

Mary stared at him. "Yes! Of course. Well… probably. Provided you'd forgive me after."

Dean laughed.

Then it was a rush to put the cases away, close up the safe, and replace the poster. They'd hardly finished when the elevator doors 'dinged' from the other end of the corridor, and muffled footsteps drew closer.

Dean cocked the pistol and stepped forward a little, shoulders tense. Sam joined Mary by the desk, face set, jaw clenched. Mary crossed her arms over her chest and smiled to herself a little. Demons and deals and fights with Mother, incarceration and addictive potions and sons she no longer knew… but now, finally, she was back on familiar ground.

Bela was through the door first, silent and mutinous-looking – which was a new one for her. When she saw them, she gave a start, took a step back. Collins followed her in, let the door fall slam shut in surprise when he saw his visitors.

"Mary," he said. "Mary, what are you doing here?"

"What in the hell!" Bela exclaimed at the same time, and did she actually sound panicked?

"Sorry about this," Dean said, chipper and sarcastic and perfectly comfortable. "We were just lookin' for some lost property."

Bela took a step forward and froze when the pistol swung to meet her. "Dean. You don't understand."

"Sold to the highest bidder, like I said," Dean replied. "The part I wasn't expecting, though… _christo_."

Collins flinched back, eyes turning black, and the demon chuckled low in its stolen throat. Bela didn't look in the least bit surprised – until it spoke, not to Dean, or even Sam, but to Mary.

"I suspected. There are any number of crazy rumours about you, you know."

"Really," Mary said quietly. "Well, I'm flattered. You wanna tell me who you're working for?"

"I'll take a guess and say Lilith," Sam said. "Nice bed you've made yourself, Bela."

"Wrong," Bela said. "Very wrong. Off by about, oh, a hundred and eighty degrees." She seemed to have regained a little composure, but there was a tightness to her mouth, and her eyes darted around the room unceasingly.

"Oh, come on," the demon cut in. "If my information is correct, we're all working for the same side here, kids. Well, more or less."

"The same side?" Dean said softly. "Which is that, exactly?"

"Whichever one Lilith _isn't_ on," the demon said. "Ya know, Dean, I'm surprised at you. Really. Everything I told you about Hell, and you're going down there of your own free will?"

The words, the tone of voice, the little jerking movement of the head…

"Knew it," Sam muttered. "Meg."

"Sammy," it said, smirking wider, almost a leer. "How you doin', all alone in there?" It moved forward, step by slow step, and the muzzle of the pistol followed it, but much as Dean wanted to, he didn't shoot.

"Nice and peaceful, thanks," Sam grated out, fists clenched. Mary cured her fingers around his wrist, comfort and restraint at once.

The demon looked around, slow and amused, taking in the office, the pistol, the door to the outer world. "So this is what's called an impasse, kiddies," it said gleefully. "Mustn't attract too much attention, right?"

"Don't," Bela said pleadingly. "Please, just… Dean, please."

"Please what?" Dean snarled. "Please don't kill my current employer? Please don't finally get rid of the bitch who's been making our lives difficult for the better part of a year? Please don't finally take out the other bitch who possessed my brother?"

Mary let them snarl at each other, the tension in the room racketing up with every word until it seemed to vibrate between the four of them; one wrong word, one quick move, and everything would blow up. She ignored it. This Talbot girl… why was she so desperate for the pistol?

Witch-sight let her see it, the sheen of darkness around the girl, the shimmer and flicker of fire that licked at her outlines… just as it did at Dean's.

"You sold her your soul," Mary said, and her words cut through the demon's taunts like a knife through butter. Everyone was staring at her, but she only had eyes for Talbot. "You sold your soul, and time's nearly up."

Talbot looked over at the demon, eyes wide with fear. "I – you said, if I brought you the Colt –"

'Meg' laughed again. "I… may have exaggerated a little."

"You said you could protect her," Sam guessed, voice tight with fury as Dean tossed out, "Newsflash, Talbot, demons lie."

"Why? Why all this? What could you, of all people, possibly want the Colt for now?" Sam wanted to know.

"The only weapon in the world that can kill a demon? Please. Whoever holds that gun, can rule all of us. And, you know, there was the whole 'vengeance for my father' aspect. You boys know all about that, don't you?"

Ever closer, unafraid, moving towards Dean and the pistol inexorably, as if it could tell that they weren't otherwise armed, that they had no holy water, no salt, no iron…

"I take it you're playing for your own team, then," Mary said.

The demon turned its head to look at her, eyes still pitch-black in Collins' face. "Why yes," it said, sounding rather pleased with itself. "As a matter of fact, I am. Question is, who are you playing for?"

When Sam was puzzled, he did this little head-jerk off to one side, and frowned slightly; apparently, the expression was genetic, because Mary got it now.

"What?"

"Oh, come on. I know what you are. You're trying to tell me that you're on _their_ side?" nodding at the boys. "I wouldn't believe her, boys. She wants Daddy's gun for her own reasons. Mary Colt's at least as dangerous as Lilith. And as unpredictable as the weather. You know the bitch is half-demon, right?"

"You don't know," Mary said, delighted. "You really don't know! Oh, but he must have been afraid of me, to not tell anyone."

'Meg' frowned at her. "What?"

For the first time, Mary jumped off the desk she was perched on. "Honey. You know what name I went by, before Collins?"

And she let it go, that iron control she'd had since the age of six or younger, let it all bubble to the surface, seep into her bones and blood and rise up until she could grasp it, use it, shape it any way she wanted to, but the demon let out a shriek of horror when it realised what Mary was doing, when it felt that power boiling over inside her, and lunged for her.

Mary's back hit the desk as Collins' hands closed over her throat, but her knee came up into his groin at the same time, making the demon stumble a little in surprise, and before Dean could shoot it they'd rolled off, objects and papers scattering around them, and hit the floor.

Sam was shouting, words Mary recognised but couldn't make out at first… but then the demon jerked, twisted, and she realised it was an exorcism.

Pure reflex, taking advantage of its distraction, bucking it off, rolling to her feet, and she took a certain amount of satisfaction out of breaking Collins' nose, because God knew he was a crappy father, but the blow sent tingles of pain up her still-injured hand and that cost her her reaction time, so back on 

the floor again, knees aching with the kick they'd taken, perilously close to the huge glass window hundreds of feet above the ground, Sam still chanting and Dean unable to get a clear shot, but then her hand closed over a heavy picture frame that had fallen off the desk.

She drove the corner of it into Collins side, and the demon flinched again at the double attack: on the physical body it had stolen, and on itself as Sam carried on chanting, its moment of pain and distraction all Mary needed to get back enough concentration to use her power.

Father's pistol jerked out of Dean's hands, slid across the floor into her palm, perfect fit, and then the muzzle was against Collins temple, her finger curled around the trigger, the sound of the shot deafening from her position, but it worked, thank God, it worked, same as always, lightening flickering around the wound, in Collins' eyes, strange that the sight of a pistol going off could make her feel so at home, the body on top of her jerking and twitching and finally falling still.

Sam hauled it off her, helped her to her feet. Dean was at the door, checking for witnesses, but their conversations first with Mother and then with 'Meg' had thankfully taken so long that the place was now deserted.

Bela was crouched on the floor still, eyes wide and terrified. Sam looked worried, but Mary found she was grinning in sheer triumph. Father would have killed her for letting the demon past her defences like that, but she'd needed to know, once and for all.

Oh yeah. Incarceration or no, she was still _that damn good_.

It took all her self-control not to whoop for sheer joy.

"You're telekinetic," Sam said as she tossed the pistol back to Dean, still grinning. "You might have said."

"I'm a lot of things," Mary shrugged. "It kinda depends on the situation."

"Who are you?" Bela demanded, staggering to her feet. "And what do you want with the gun? I… look. You have to let me have it! It's my only chance."

"Somehow, I get the impression you brought this on yourself," Dean cut in.

"Oh, and you didn't?"

"At the very least I had a better excuse than hard cash and silk sheets!" he hissed.

"Children," Mary said. "If we're all going to play together, you two are going to have to learn to share. And we are going to pay together, kids," she added as Bela turned a furious glare on her. "Talbot, you're in a position to… procure… something I urgently need. In return, I'll protect you from Lilith."

"You can do that?" She looked skeptical.

"Of course."

"Who are you? It called you Mary Colt, but that tells me nothing."

"Hm. Well, that was my maiden name. These days, it's Winchester."

Bela's eyes widened.

"Bela, our mother Mary," Dean said, politely sarcastic. "Mom, this is Bela Talbot, unscrupulous thief and all-round pain in my ass."

Mary grinned, still ridiculously elated. "And here was me all set to dislike her."


	7. darkest of them all

**Darkest of them all**

Dean could hardly believe their luck when Bela admitted she already had some of his grandfather's curse-boxes. Gave a whole new meaning to the expression 'too good to be true'.

"As soon as I heard about the Colt, I started collecting," Bela explained. "I thought, where there's one thing that can help me, there could be more, right?"

They didn't get this lucky. Ever. Winchester karma didn't allow it.

Maybe Colt karma did, though. Mom certainly didn't seem worried about cosmic retribution, just told Bela to take her to the warehouse she was keeping the collection in, and made Dean and Sam wait in the hotel. Not that either of them had complained about getting away from Cruella De Vil. Dean was fairly confident Mom could kick her ass any day of the week.

It was about the first time they'd been alone since Mom had arrived in Black Rock, and for a moment, they found themselves just standing there, staring at each other. Everything had gone so fast… scarcely two weeks ago, Dean had been sure he was headed straight for hell, no reprieve possible.

Now, not only was he on the way to getting out, but Sam would be safe from Lilith, and oh yeah, they had a mother again.

"Wow," Sam said softly, as if he'd been reading his brother's thoughts.

Dean grinned. "Yeah."

It was too big for words, this relief, this sense of freedom, of a weight lifted, a responsibility removed.

"So…"

"What's on the TV?" Dean cut off any further emo-ness, and Sam laughed. "What am I, a walking TV guide? Go find out for yourself."

Dean dropped onto his bed and sprawled there, digging through the covers till he found the remote. Reruns of _Stargate SG-1_. Familiar, comforting, fun… perfect.

They weren't alone anymore. They weren't running in the dark from a demon they couldn't fight and a destiny they didn't understand; they were no longer caught weapon- and powerless in the middle of a war the stakes and sides of which changed every other day.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean called suddenly as O'Neill and Jackson mucked around with a tennis ball in front of some bad guy's throne.

"What?" Sam's voice drifted out of the bathroom.

"So much for not coming back."

It took a moment before Sam remembered that conversation atop the bridge in Jericho – _even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone, and she's not coming back_ – but then he started to laugh.

* * *

"This is it," Bela said, gesturing around at the boxes piled in the small storeroom. "Everything I've found. Not much, as I said, but…"

"All I need," Mary answered. "Thank you."

Bela nodded a little. "Here. In these ones." She led the way to the back of the room and pried the lid off the nearest crate, dug through the Styrofoam till she found the artifact. Mary was doing the same to another crate, and found herself holding her breath every time her fingers touched metal or wood. Not just the curse-box she'd need to trap Sammael, but so many other things Father had made – two more revolvers, both of which she could remember him using, some protection amulets, one of his machetes…

At the very bottom, a slender curved dagger the length of her hand with the initials 'MC' carved into the hilt, under the crossguard.

The first knife she'd ever owned. It still fit perfectly into her palm, just like the pistols, even though she'd been only ten when Father had given it to her. She glanced over at Talbot and slipped it into her sleeve as the other woman turned her head away. No way was she explaining who she was to this girl.

"You really can protect me?" Bela broke the silence. Mary straightened up, curse-box in hand, and nodded.

"Yes. I'm pretty sure. Lilith and I have… an agreement, about other things she wants much, much more than she wants you. I can promise you that. But tell me one thing. Why did you do it? You can't have more than sixteen."

Bela looked away, wave of emotions crossing her face, so strong that Mary caught the edges of them, flickers of memories not her own brushing against her awareness.

…_pain humiliation if you tell anyone I'll kill you hot pawing hands on her body bruises aches blood…_

Mary didn't realise she'd crossed the room to the girl until her hand closed over her shoulder. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," she whispered.

Bela looked up sharply, mouth trembling, and for a moment it seemed she was about to cry… but then her lips thinned, face smoothing, calm and expressionless.

Mary herself couldn't have done it so quickly.

"Money doesn't grow on trees, you know," she said sweetly. "You have to work for it. Did you find what you needed?"

Mary smiled. "Yes, thank you."

* * *

Sam wasn't sure what Mom had done to help Bela, but they left New York the next morning, heading out into the country to find some quiet, preferably abandoned, place to work the ritual in. He was getting a little nervous, to tell the truth. Sprawled in the passenger seat of the Impala, head resting against the window, with nothing else to do but set everything up and go with it, it was the first time he'd had the opportunity to think properly about what he was about to do.

Basically, he was going to split his soul.

Well, not in the Harry Potter Horcruxes sense, because the part of him Mom was going to remove wasn't really _him_, was it, but all that did was beg the question how big a part that was. How much of the person he thought of as Sam Winchester would still be left afterwards?

How big a part of him was a demon already?

Mom was watching him in the rearview mirror, expression unreadable. Suddenly, Sam couldn't bear to meet those bottomless green eyes. Mary Winchester was pretty amazing in a lot of ways... and pretty scary in many more. Sam more than half suspected she could read his mind, and he wasn't sure if she liked what she saw or not. She and Dean shared a connection that he simply didn't have… just as Dad and Dean had.

Dean. Driving, of course, window rolled down, wind in his hair, tapping out the rhythm of Zeppelin's _Rock and Roll_ on the steering wheel as if he had no other care in the world. As if he weren't a month away from eternal hellfire. He was practically the personification of good to his brother, light and life and laughter that nothing could put out, an unshakeable, unconquerable, determination and strength that matched Dad's in every way.

If Sam and Mom were the irresistible forces in the Winchester family, then Dad and Dean were the immovable objects.

Sam tried to think back to the endless monotonous emptiness of those months without him, and couldn't. His mind shied away from it, too awful to contemplate, let alone go through. Certainly not twice.

Sammael was coming out. No matter who Sam was – what he was – afterwards… if that was what Lilith wanted in return for his brother, then that was what Lilith would get.

"Take a picture," Dean said without looking round. "It'll last longer."

Sam coughed, shifted, tried to cover up. "Than what?"

"Than me. Enough with the staring, Sammy. You'll strain somethin'."

"Touching, your concern is."

"Oh, I'm not concerned about you. It's your job to keep my ass alive, so I need you sharp." For the first time, Dean looked over at him, eyes as bottomless as Mom's – but unlike Mom's, Sam knew every inch of Dean's by heart. There was a little quirk at the corner of Dean's mouth that might have been a smile, and he looked younger than he ever had since Dad died.

In the rearview mirror, Mom was smiling at them.

* * *

"It feels too easy," Dean admitted to Mom as they drew the Devil's Trap on the floor of the abandoned house they'd picked for the ritual. "I mean… Winchester karma doesn't allow for this sort of thing."

Mom sighed. "It's not going to be easy, Dean. I promise you that. For one thing, Sam needs to trust me, and he doesn't. And don't forget… he's been carrying this around with him for over twenty years. That's a long time for it to sit inside him and fester."

"What do you mean, Sam doesn't trust you?" Dean sounded affronted, and indignant, and pissed off, and he couldn't tell who it was aimed at – her, for thinking it… or Sam, for acting the very same way with Mom that he always had with Dad.

"Well, I haven't really given him any reason to, have I?" Mom said wryly.

"I trust you," Dean protested. "And I don't remember that you-"

"Ah, but you do, see," Mom interrupted, and suddenly, Dean did.

Odd that he'd never realised before just how much of his relationship with Dad – and now with Mom – was based on those few treasured memories of home that he carried inside him like a talisman, a light against the darkness he usually moved in.

"Besides," Mom said with a sudden grin, "I don't _have_ karma, love. As a rule, the universe does whatever the fuck I tell it to."

Dean laughed out loud.

* * *

They were sitting opposite each other in the Devil's Trap, candles lit, the curse-box open between them, mugs in hand. Dean stood to one side with Father's pistol, grim and quiet and worried.

"There's really nothing I can do?" he asked again. Mary shook her head at him and smiled.

"No. Sorry, but you'll have to be patient. Sam?"

He nodded, and they both drank the hot 'potion' down. Mary hadn't told the boys exactly what was in it. Most of the herbs were hard to come by, powerful, and not usually used in white magic. She didn't want them messing around with that stuff. She held out her hands to Sam, palms down. He took them, his own hands shaking a little with nervousness.

"Is this all?"

"It helps that you're my son," Mary said. "There's already a connection, so we won't need to do the cutting-palms-and-mingling-blood part."

The pages she'd found at Singer's that held the spell were balanced on her crossed legs, and Mary Colt let her head fall forward, hair hanging down around her shoulders, and began to read.

Not until she'd repeated the incantation three times did it start to take effect, helped along by the herbs they'd imbibed. The room around her grew wonky, tipped and trembled, began to spin. It was doing the same to Sam, she knew. One more repetition of the spell, voice slowing down, words coming more difficultly. She could feel Sam now, his emotions, thoughts, fears all close enough to touch.

Darkness flickering, faint and mostly hidden, at the corners of his mind. Anger there, hatred.

With the fifth repetition of the spell, everything around her became clearer, more focused. Figures began to take shape in the dizzy grey, scenes to play out. Sammael was closer, and she could almost see him, like a dark figure you notice out of the corner of your eye who's gone when you turn around to watch him.

Six times through the spell, and now she could hear voices, see faces. She ignored them, thrusting past them, trying to move forwards. Sammael. A shadow with clearly defined outlines, a hole into darkness cut out of the grey around her, and she just couldn't reach him, couldn't move. Something pushed at her, trying to get in, to find a chink in the armour she'd worn for over a century, and she shoved it away, merciless, angry that it presumed to try, she wouldn't be drawn into this, she was here to help Sammy, to save Dean –

_Mom,_ Sam said, standing in front of her in the grey, one hand outstretched. _Mom, please. I – help me, Mom. I can't-_

No. No. This was not part of the plan, dammit. This was meant to be about him, not her.

He pushed against her, more insistently, even desperately, and then Mary understood.

She was an intruder, a stranger who had no place here, even more so than Sammael. Sammy needed her help, but the demon was pushing her away, fighting her. She couldn't fight the bastard _and_ cut him away from Sam at the same time. She'd been wrong: she didn't have the strength. From the outside like this, there was nothing she could do. She needed to be inside, with Sam, where she could show him how to help himself, to fight the influence Azazel had bound in his very blood.

There was only one way to do that.

The seventh time she repeated the incantation, she let everything go. Like being dropped in cold water, the shock sudden and intense and bone-deep.

Motel rooms and scruffy apartments and schools he was never a part of, training and hunts and helping John stitch up Dean's leg at twelve, long endless hours in the Impala, broken ribs, social workers and policemen, arguments with John that tore at Mary, the one last great fight that had torn their relationship apart for good, Sam's accusations and insults terrible to listen to and the fear on John's face that she had never seen there before, because dammit, John wasn't afraid of _anything_, and apparently Sam thought so too, because he just couldn't see it.

Stanford was hard at first, loneliness and awkwardness and the confusion of a brand-new world, but there were friends, and there was Jess. An apartment of their own, exams, an interview with a prestigious law school. Dean's face above him the dark room, _whoa, easy, tiger!_ and with that a hundred thousand other memories, of bike rides and learning to drive and going fishing, of prank wars and Dad turning up on Christmas morning with presents and a tree, of movie nights and school plays and soccer games Dean never missed and Dad only occasionally forgot.

Jess dying pinned to the ceiling above their bed, a long succession of hunts, days and nights blurring together and the only thing that Mary could make out with any clarity among the many images, drenched as they were with fear and grief, was Dean, the cabin at last, oh God, John, _do it! shoot me, son!_ and _if you had, your brother would be awake right now!_ and then John died, and it was like the roller-coaster reaching the top of the tracks and then rushing down into darkness and death.

Cold Oak. The dead kids, Azazel's taunts, a flickering image of her own death, the pure fury on her face when she recognised him, how long had Sam been keeping that secret, been carrying that burden, before she found them again?, Dean's desperate embrace in the cabin.

The cemetery. Jake dead, rage such as Sam had never known, demons streaming through the gates, Dean pinned to a headstone, and dammit, if he could just tap into those powers, if he could only use them the way Jake had described, Dean, Dean! and what does he mean, not one hundred percent pure Sam, but no time to wonder, had to get loose, because _Dean was about to die_, and then there was Dad.

Somewhere in the real world, Mary Colt was crying as she watched her husband climb out of Hell to save their sons.

_That was for our Mom, you son of a bitch._

For his part, Sam was tossed into a maelstrom. Nothing to focus on, nothing familiar. She'd opened up and let him in because she had to to get inside, but from here on out, he was on his own, lost in images he couldn't process, scenes he didn't understand, people dead centuries ago.

Her first meeting with Anansi, in an alleyway over the body of a pedophile and rapist. He'd been black in those days, spoken with a Caribbean accent, which was why she'd called him Anansi instead of Loki, or Hermes, or by any other trickster's name. Ruby, blonde then too, and older, but otherwise as grim and harsh and unforgiving as ever. Samuel Colt, so much like Dean in looks and attitude, his training that had unmistakable parallels to John Winchester's, the spells and incantations and herb-lore that Ruby spent hours teaching her daughter.

Elizabeth Hart, barely ten years older than Mary when she became her stepmother, a pretty young girl with a steel core to her who befriended the half-wild gutter brat and taught her everything Sam had never thought necessary and Ruby couldn't give a damn about. How to dress, to talk to people, to read literature as well as spellbooks, to paint and draw a little, to appreciate music. She and Sam had taken the fifteen-year-old witch-child on their honeymoon to Europe with them, shown her the world.

A dark-haired man named Luthor, an apprentice of Colt's, oddly familiar to Sam. He'd loved her, but all she'd wanted was a way to forget the dry-eyed calm of a young woman who had put the torch to her baby sister's cold dead body because their father couldn't bear to.

A blur of blood and darkness from her first death at Azazel's hands to her awakening years later, the horror of that asylum, the drugs, the beatings, the rapes, the imprisonment.

The hopelessness, the emptiness, the abandonment as she ripped up the sheets and knotted them into a loop that would pull tight when she kicked the chair out from under her.

Endless successions of hunts, of hopeless searching for Ruby, for answers. Finding Anansi again in San Francisco the only flicker of light in those years, the only time she wasn't alone.

Sam knew the emptiness growing in the pit of her stomach as she left Pearl Harbour for France. He himself had lived with it for six months that never happened. It only grew when she returned to America, no more chance of finding Mother now than she'd had fifty years ago.

Another continent, another war, Korea, Sam thought, and then…

Dad. Smart, tough, uncompromising, brutally honest, stubborn, arrogant, funny, kind, gentle. Never gave up, never lost at anything, always knew precisely what he wanted and went after it.

And he wanted Mary.

Something she'd never known before, this pull towards another person, this connection. This trust in someone besides Anansi or her father, or Elizabeth.

Years since she'd trusted someone, needed someone, let herself feel anything for someone. Dad had treated her like a person, not a fragile glass statue or a means to an end but his equal in every way, had completely blindsided her, and Mary had fallen so far and so fast she couldn't see daylight. She hadn't cared. Had never felt so loved. So… whole.

When Dean was born, she'd sat and held him and cried for long hours after Dad had fallen asleep in the chair next to her hospital bed. So this was what happiness felt like.

Careless, she'd grown careless, how Father would berate her for not realising at once that hadn't been John standing over Sammy's crib –

_It's you!_

Like a punch to the gut, the fear that ran through her at the sight of Sam and Dean in Lawrence. What could she ever say to them, what could she do, to make it better, to apologise for what she'd put them through?

John, at Missouri's house. She couldn't face him, just couldn't. He'd hate her now, surely, for what she'd done, and she couldn't bear that.

Then he found Father's pistol, even before she did, and that bastard demon was closing in on them, and so she forced down all her fear and came to Colorado. But they were already there, already waiting, and then there was nothing but darkness again, drugs and torture, too weak to use any of her abilities, surrounded by demons even if she did make it out of the cell, and oh god she couldn't do this not again she was trapped trapped like a rat in a cage and she couldn't bear it and then –

_Hello, Mother. Been a while._

Like standing up to your neck in cold water that was now slowly subsiding, Sam emerged from his mother's mind, shivering, eyes wide and horrified.

"I'm hoping you won't remember too much of that," Mary said softly. "I'm sorry you had to see it, but you wouldn't let me in without my reciprocating."

"How do you bear it?" Sam whispered. "I – I have Dean, at least."

Mom shrugged. "It wasn't so bad. Those were just the worst parts. And , you know, there was John."

They seemed to be standing in… well, nothing. Grey all around them, an endless stretch of emptiness.

"Where are we?"

"In your mind. You have to be the one to kick Sammael out, Sam. I can help, and I can show you how, but ultimately, you have to do it."

"My mind looks like this?"

She laughed. "You can shape it any way you want, Sam."

It took a little concentration, but then they were home, in the front yard of the house in Lawrence where he'd first seen her. Mary smiled delightedly.

"Lovely. Thank you."

"Now what?"

She looked up at him, smile fading, eyes taking on that emerald glint, hard and grim. "Call Sammael."

Sam drew a long deep breath to steady himself. "OK. Here goes."

It was frighteningly easy, a sign of how much control the bastard had, how much Sam had slipped the last few despairing months, and that was all he had time to realise before all he could see was darkness, a suffocating weight on his chest, forcing him back, pushing him down, like being possessed all over again only worse, because this time, there's no separation. There's no _me and it_.

All Sam. All of it. At first he felt a strange reluctance to get away, to force it back, to spate himself. Weren't they one and the same person? Didn't they belong together? Wasn't it as much a part of him as his right leg, his nose, his hands?

Yes, of course. Get rid of him? Why? Get rid of what? There was nothing there, no stranger, no alien entities. Just Sam. All Sam. This was who he was, plain and simple. Who was she to tell him he was somehow infected, somehow wrong?

"Not about you, Sammy," Mom said. "This is for Dean."

It was the one thing that could break through that spell, make him concentrate, force himself to push it away. Sam understood then why she was here: an outsider, a focus point, someone for him to hold on to, to separate himself from the thing that had been growing inside him for over twenty years.

He clung to her with the desperation of a drowning man, and she held him tight, arms wrapped around him. Was she singing? The soft slow murmur of _Stairway to Heaven_.

Sammael… but it didn't really deserve a name, this half-conscious thing, this reflection, this accumulation of the worst of who Sam Winchester was. Still, it almost had a mind of its own, enough to fight back, to lash out at them, to struggle and kick and thrust them away.

The fight, such as it was, was by no means a physical one. Nevertheless, that was how Sam envisioned it, as a struggle against a human enemy, or a shifter, perhaps, one that wore his own form, trading blows and dodging kicks and wrestling with it, back and forth, even though they never moved and Mom's arms were still around him.

It hissed and spat and clawed at him, dragging memories out that hurt more than any blow, trying to regain some control, to force Sam into letting it take over, Jess, Dad, Dean's endless row of terrible deaths, Madison dead by his own hands, a long series of failures, of high-school humiliations, of fights with Dad, of rows with Dean, even Mom's death.

They swamped him, and so did the fear and the pain and the grief that went with them, the guilt and self-loathing and anger, and for long agonised moments that was all he knew.

But Mom was still there, still holding him, singing softly, it was _Stairway to Heaven_, and Sam clung to her. Clung to that song, remembering Dad and Dean in the front seat of the car, singing along to it while he dozed in the back, sunshine warm on his face.

"You can do it, Sam," she whispered. "If John can fight past a Prince of Hell, you can get rid of this pathetic thing inside you. You can do it. For Dean."

Dean.

Sam fought back with the icy ruthless determination of Mary Colt's son, with Christmas trees and presents and the day Dad let him have his first beer, with moving in with Jess, with Dad's smile that day in Chicago, with Dean, Dean, Dean, always Dean, the center of his world and the motor, the engine, the force that turned it, kept him running, kept him sane.

In the end, it was as quick and simple as picking off a scab. It hurt like Hell, the skin around the wound stretching and tearing, but it was a good pain, clean and welcomed. There was a brief sense of loss, of something missing, and then… silence. Peace.

* * *

Dean had been watching and waiting for nearly three hours now, passing the Colt from one hand to the other, not nervous exactly, just… hyped up. Neither Mom nor Sammy had moved since the seventh and last repetition of the incantation, still and motionless as statues.

As always, there was no sound of a car, or even footsteps: one minute the world was utterly silent, the next Ruby was crashing through the front door, pale and horrified and furious all at once.

"What the hell is going on in here?" she shouted.

Dean leveled the Colt at her quite calmly. If she interfered, grandmother or no, he'd kill her.

"Ask Mom when it's over," he said.

Ruby shook her head. "You fools," she said angrily. "You idiots! You think Lilith hasn't realised by now what you're up to? You think she can't sense what they're doing? Every demon on the continent can! Do you know how much power is pouring off them right now? It's like a magnet, like a flame to moths, they'll be here within hours-"

So all in all, it was a good thing Sam and Mom chose that moment to wake up.

Mom went from still and silent to on her feet, curse-box in hand, so quickly Dean's eyes couldn't follow; Sam was twisting and writhing and struggling with something, face wet with sweat, and then, like after the exorcism at Bobby's so long ago, his head jerked back, and a long billow of demon smoke escaped his mouth.

"Get him out!" Mary shouted, and Dean rushed forward, grabbed his brother's shoulders, hauled his unconscious weight out of the Devil's Trap.

Damn, Sammy, when did you get so heavy?

He was sitting on the floor, colt at his side, Sam's weight across his lap, when he looked up again, and by then, Mom had trapped Sammael. The curse-box snapped shut with a click that seemed to reverberate around the room.

Mary Winchester looked up at her sons and smiled. "Now it's over," she said softly.

"Over!" Ruby shouted. "You're damn right it's over, Mary. I'm done. Through with all of you. I'm trying to fight a war here that could save or destroy the entire world, and all you want to do is hole up in some abandoned house and play mind games?"

"I'm saving my sons," Mary snarled at her, fists clenched. Dean thought it was a good thing she wasn't holding the Colt. "That's all… but of course, it's not something you'd know anything about, is it, Mother? All the times you abandoned me…"

"You think I had a choice?" Mother whispered. "You think I didn't come for you as soon as I could, as soon as I knew where you were?"

"I think you came for me as soon as you decided you needed me," Mary said, more calmly now.

"You're my daughter, you little fool. I love you. And I loved your Father," Mother said fervently, angry and hurt at the same time.

"Not as much as you loved Azazel, apparently."

Mother froze up, body tense, eyes wide in her stolen bloodless face. Dean's breath caught.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me. That's why you've worked so hard to destroy him, isn't it? I've had a lot of time to think about this, down in that cell. You loved Azazel, and he scorned you. That's why you've spent centuries working to destroy him, why you were willing to curse your own daughter, let your grandsons die, if it would help you defeat him. Hell hath no fury, after all. I'm right, aren't I, Mother?"

Mother looked shocked, stricken, even broken, as if something inside her had snapped and given way. "You have no idea…" she whispered. "He was… he was beautiful. Made of light and fire, air and infinity, and… oh, Mary. But I – I wasn't enough. There was always more, always others, the whole world at his feet for so long. And finally, it was too much. I tried, tried to stop it, wanted to help, but he…"

Mary stared at her, eyes wide. At her feet, still cradling Sam's unconscious form, Dean let out a long soft exhale of understanding.

"Azazel, a chief of the Grigori, angels who lusted after human women," he whispered.

Mother's eyes turned to him. "Not just women," she said, unshed tears glinting in her eyes now. "Life, Dean. Humanity. Flesh and blood and bones, your senses, your emotions, your connection to the earth, your ability to love… none of us have that. None of us will ever have it. That's how it started. Your grandfather, he showed me… he reminded me what it was. Mary even more. But none of us will ever truly _know_ it again, and it drove him mad, I think. So close, and yet…"

Mary's hand tightened on Dean's shoulder; she was struggling to hold back tears. Mother took another step forward and picked up the box holding Sammael.

"I'll take this to Lilith," she said quietly. "Be well, my loves."

Then she left.

Mary dropped blindly to her knees beside her sons, and wrapped her arms around Dean's shoulders as Sam began to stir. Dean turned his face against her shoulder with a choked-off sob.

"Wow," he whispered brokenly.

Mary laughed, just as broken as he. "Yeah. Hey, Sammy. You OK?"

"I –" Sam sat up, hand going to his head. "Headache. Is it over? Is it gone?"

Mary brushed his hair back from his forehead, smiled at him, pressed her other hand against his chest, over his heartbeat. "Yes, love. It's over; there's no one in here but you, now."

"And Dean… Dean will be safe?" Sam twisted to look up at his big brother.

"Of course," Mary said. "Lilith has no choice but to keep her bargain, you know. She will never be able to raise a hand against either of you again."

"Which doesn't mean to say the war's over," Dean tossed in. Mary smiled at him.

"I have every faith in you two."

The boys both stared at her. "But – " Sam said at the same time Dean exclaimed, "You're leaving us?"

Mary shook her head at them. "I think I have to. This is your fight, you know, not mine. Not anymore. And I'm tired, boys. Do you realise I've been fighting them for nearly two hundred years? Two hundred years too many. I have six different sets of childhood memories, for God's sake. I can't keep riding this merry-go-round of death and rebirth forever. Most of all though… most of all, I want to be with John again."

"We've only just got you back," Dean said softly.

Mary rolled her eyes. "I didn't say _now_," she retorted. "Or tomorrow. You know how long it'll take to break this damn curse? Months, probably. You can't just snap your fingers and break a binding tying someone's soul to this world, you know."

"Oh, OK. That we can work with," Dean quipped.

Sam laughed, and then reached up to press his hands into his temples with a long groan. His brother bent over him worriedly. Mary just squeezed his shoulder, firm cool grip lending a little comfort, a little steadiness. John's hair and eyes and tan and her own nose, her jaw and mouth...

Dean met her eyes over the top of Sam's head, and she smiled at him a little, but her thoughts were far away and long ago, in a cluttered little apartment in Lawrence, filled with records and college textbooks and band t-shirts and John.

_It's done, John. The boys are safe – they'll be safe from Lilith forever, now. It's not over, but the rest is up to them. I've done all I can, my love. _

_I'll see you soon._


	8. epilogue: eastern glow

_**Epilogue: Eastern glow**_

_Nothing strange about waking up in the sun-drenched bedroom of her old apartment in Lawrence. She had dreamed herself here more times than she could count since awakening as Mary Collins in Manhattan some years ago. Even as a teenager, she could vaguely remember snatches of dreams about John, being with him again, loving him._

_So no surprise to find him in the bed with her, propped up on one elbow, same slow lazy smile as the morning she'd first woken in his arms in 1976._

"_Morning, Beautiful," he drawled._

"_Hello, soldier." She could stay here forever, watching him watch her._

"_You've been holding out on me," he told her, amused, a trace of reproach there too._

_She knew what he meant. "Only a little. Occasionally. Never about anything important." Gave him her most charming smile._

_He kissed it away effortlessly. "You're not even sorry."_

_She __**was not**__ breathless when she answered. Just not. This was a __**dream**__, dammit. "No. I'm not. You would have thought I was crazy."_

"_Oh, I don't know. Threw me at first, but… it wasn't hard to prove. You didn't make much effort to cover your tracks, my love."_

_She froze up, eyes widening, fixed on his. Her hands came up, framed his face, tracing his jaw and lips and the scar on his cheek, and then she knew. _

"_You're really here. You're __**my **__John."_

_His eyebrows rose as he gathered her into his arms. "You were having doubts?"_

"_I've dreamed of you so often…" she murmured into his mouth._

"_And I of you. I hoped and hoped… I thought maybe you'd find us. Then in Lawrence, when Missouri told me you'd destroyed yourself, I was afraid I'd been wrong after all…"_

_Mary pressed herself against him, skin on skin, warmth so long missed, fingertips tracing the long shrapnel scar down his side, faces so close they were breathing each other's breath._

"_Why didn't you come to me?" John asked quietly, and her laugh was more of a hiccoughing sob._

"_I was afraid," she admitted, drawing back a little. "Afraid to face you, afraid to face the boys. The one thing I could never have endured was your hatred."_

_He kissed her again, deeply and passionately. "Never. Never, Mary. I love you. And I don't care what you are, or what you've done, or how old you really are. I just don't. The boys understood, didn't they? Why not me?"_

"_I'm their mother. I'm supposed to protect them, not ruin their lives. And you… this was my war. You shouldn't have had to fight it."_

"_What could you possibly have done to change anything that's happened?"_

_She stared at him._

"_Not had them? Not met me?"_

_Like he needed her to answer that. He knew she'd never trade the boys, or their time together, for anything._

"_I don't deserve you," she told him, the knot of guilt in her chest loosening a little._

"_Not the answer I was hoping for."_

_Mary laughed for real this time. "Do you really need me to say it?" she teased._

"_A little confirmation never hurts."_

"_Oh, fine then. I love you. I'm over a hundred and seventy years old, a fact you'd better not repeat in public, I've fought in wars and hunted and traveled this continent more times than I can count, but you, John Winchester, are the first, last, and only man I've ever loved."_

_His eyes widened. "The only…"_

"_You weren't expecting that?" She felt a bit offended._

"_There was mention of a fiancé a few times."_

"_Only the one! And it was 1942. Fiancés were a fashion accessory."_

_John burst out laughing. "I kinda feel for him. Loosing you…"_

"_Never again," she said, pulling his head down for another kiss._

"_No. Never," he murmured, smiling, a soft fervent promise against her lips._

"_Mother said you were in Hell," she whispered, remembering the awful emptiness that had swept over her when Mother had told her the news._

_The man __**smirked**__ at her, all triumph and self-satisfaction, and said, as if he were referring to a simple stint in prison, "I got out early."_

"_Just like that?"_

"_It wasn't easy, you know."_

"_Oh, right, I should be fangirling you."_

"_Well, yeah," her husband agreed matter-of-factly. _

"_That proves it. This really __**isn't**__ a hallucination."_

_John laughed. "Don't be silly. A hallucination couldn't do __**this**__, could it?"_

"_Stop distracting me," she said breathlessly, squirming against him. "Why are you here?"_

"_Why am __**I **__here?" He pulled back, ignoring her pout of protest, sounding genuinely surprised. "Mary – you know you're, well, __**dead**__, right, love?"_

"_I can't die. I just keep getting reborn… oh, don't tell me I have to leave you?"_

"_I told you already. Never again. I __**do**__ have your undivided attention here, right?"_

"_Since the minute I first woke up naked in your arms in this very bed. Why?" She squirmed again, rather pointedly; he caught her wandering hands and pinned her wrists to the pillow beside her head, leaning over her._

"_OK then. Listen carefully. We're __**dead**__, my love. No dreams, no hallucinations. This is real. We're dead."_

"_Mother reversed the curse…" she said softly, eyes widening._

"_I'm inclined to think it was Dean and Sammy, actually."_

"_Matricide. People used to get pursued by Furies for that."_

"_Hey, they didn't kill you. Just took the curse off. Or does it count if they shoot your mother?"_

"_Better not count. And I hope they do."_

"_Oh, catty."_

"_She used me," Mary said, anger colouring her voice. "She used me and manipulated me, and you what? That would be just dandy if she'd stopped there, because God knows I'm used to it, and anyway I ought to know better, but the boys? That business with Anansi? I will never forgive her for putting them through that."_

_John let her wrists go, ran a hand down her body, from her shoulder down her back and over her waist and hip, warm and firm and comforting and, yes, a bit possessive, caressing what belonged to him, reassuring himself she was there, she was real. Mary realised then that her body was back to normal, tanned and fit and softly curved, all the scars of her incarceration gone, and felt a rush of gratitude. Call her vain, but she didn't want John to ever see her like that. _

"_Tell you the truth, I think she's suffered enough," he said. "I got out of there, Mary, but…"_

_His voice trailed away into silence, and his eyes looked past her into empty nothingness; she knew that look. Always before though, she'd only seen it in connection with Vietnam._

_Mary reached up and pulled him down to her, wrapping herself around him once more, hands tracing hard warm muscles, rubbing over scars, mimicking his own caresses of a moment ago. She'd clung so hard to her memories of him, but in the end they had slipped away, the taste of his skin, the warm musky smell of it, and so now she pressed her face into his shoulder, open-mouthed kisses against his collar-bone, breathing him in. "Maybe you're right."_

_He kissed her deeply, smiling again. "It's in the job description."_

_She chose to ignore that in favour of a contented little moan when his mouth moved down her neck. "So. What now?"_

"_I don't really know," John admitted. "That whole moving on thing, I guess."_

"_You mean we haven't already?" If this wasn't a dream, she was allowed to be a little bit breathless. Just a little._

_He shrugged helplessly, all tousled hair and bedroom smile and mischievous glint in his eyes. "Maybe. Who knows? I can't tell. The only thing I've really been sure of is that I was waiting for you. So. Are you in a hurry to go anywhere?"_

_Mary laughed. "No hurry at all. In fact, I'm more than happy to spend eternity right… __**here**__."_

"_Sounds good to me."_


End file.
